


heavy is the head

by katietonks



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 90s Movies References, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Artist Steve Rogers, Drug Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli, Modern Royalty, Princes & Princesses, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 05:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20169175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katietonks/pseuds/katietonks
Summary: "Tradition was not in the picture, even if it was to be illustrated by some artist in the picture, itself."(Soon-to-be) Prince James has no interest in preserving the tradition that his future stepsister, the well-respect and highly-revered Princess Margaret, worked so desperately to maintain. His only interest lies in the tall, blonde artist, commissioned to paint a new family portrait to commemorate the upcoming royal wedding and sparking nothing more than a little sibling rivalry.





	1. Introduction(s)

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to A.M.E. and O.K.S. - You'll always be #1 and #2 on my list ;)
> 
> If you are in any way interested in some basic, pop tunes to compliment my favorite basic, pop prince as you read along, I made a lovely, little playlist of songs that I constantly heard on the radio that reminded me of this story, so feel free to check it out at the link below! :)
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4sEX9iuWqSXraT6PvXZiWO

_"Too much pleasure is pain."_

Margaret didn’t much care for being a member of the Royal Family. As a child, she realized her status was more of an inconvenience than a blessing. Growing up as a princess turned out to be nothing like how Disney portrayed it. Where there was singing and dancing on worn VHS tapes, there was lessons and training in reality. Etiquette classes formed her earliest memories: how to hold her head high, carrying the tiara with poise; how to sit and rise gracefully, legs crossed, hands folded; how to greet the people with a wave and a smile no matter how she was feeling. 

It was constant routine, and it was exhausting.

All she wanted was to exchange her dress for a pair of shorts and run around outside. Instead, she sat inside, feeling suffocated underneath pounds of lace and being lectured to about which fork and spoon corresponded with which course. She always listened, absorbing the information, but she stared longingly out the window and watched her boy cousins play tag in the gardens, carefree and unencumbered by these dreadful lessons.

She never dreamed of being rescued by a prince, though. No, she could do that herself. What filled her daydreams was the concept of _adventure_, living independently where she could make her own rules and maybe read a good book.

The concept of money was introduced to her later than it probably should have. After she was old enough and had practiced the lessons well enough, she attended a more “public” school. Of course, the other children with her were not _the _public; they were the daughters and sons of her uncles and high-ranking members of Parliament, less than ten total and under the instruction of the tutor she had known since birth, in a classroom at the palace. But at her age, she was just glad to be around other kids, even if she was still trapped in the home she never seemed to leave.

It was during one of these school days that she first heard of “money.” A fellow student explained to her that he had a friend who, like any other child, wanted a pony. “Why not just ask her father?” she asked, as innocent as could be.

“Because things cost money.”

That was odd. Anything she wanted, she had been given. Anything.

In his study that night, she asked her father what that word meant. He assured her that it was nothing to worry about, that it didn’t concern her. She was welcome to whatever she liked.

Except, that idea never sat well with her. Through her teenage years, she fought back against the notion that people could immediately be disadvantaged in society just by the family that they were born into. “Why is it,” she confronted her parents with at dinner one evening, “that I receive a seemingly limitless allowance for luxuries that I don’t even _want_, but there are millions of people out there who can’t afford what they _need_?”

Her father sighed, setting down his fork – farthest from the plate for the salad – against the pristine tablecloth, unable to repeat his answer for yet another time. Her mother hid her grin behind a glass of wine.

She continued to grow up under the scrutiny of the public eye. It wasn’t too difficult, as she found, to gain approval when she spent so much of her time interacting with the community. She volunteered her time at countless events for charity – walks and runs, banquets, parades – and frequented hospitals to visit little girls who actually dreamed of being a princess. In those moments, she wished that she could give all of her fortunes to them. All of the money, the jewels and the clothes, her _health_, felt wasted, but as often as possible, those families and facilities would be the recipients of anonymous donations before she even left the building.

Princess Margaret, perhaps, had the highest approval rating among any other Royal in recorded history.

Of course, all public figures had their “scandals.” Hers came in the form of a budding relationship, captured by all of the tabloids. As she started her twenties, the people became antsy as to when to expect a new prince, so a tall, blonde American soldier became the paparazzi’s number one target after spotting the two at a local pub. The reality of their lunch together, as opposed to headline fantasies, was that it served as more of a formality than anything romantic. Simply a thank-you for co-organizing the 5k to benefit wounded veterans. (However, their second lunch held in the private palace gardens may or may not have ended in a short kiss and a promise to meet again one day – a fact that the tabloids _certainly _did not need to know.) The scandal wasn’t so much about Margaret dating anyone but, instead, concern over whether her suitor was fit for the beloved princess.

The people truly loved her – just as much as she loved them.

That love was tested soon after her twenty-first birthday. Sick with a head cold, Margaret sniffled, feeling pathetic as she lay cooped up in bed late in the afternoon. She had insisted on joining her mother and father at the gala, but they insisted on her staying home to rest.

Not long after they left, an assistant interrupted her nap. “Princess,” she said timidly, “I’m so sorry.”

Margaret shook her head with her eyes still closed and rolled onto her other side. “Nothing to worry about.”

“No, Princess. I am so very, very sorry.”

Every single news station she flipped to on the television broadcasted the accident. The tears in her eyes blurred her vision so that she literally could not see the words that each chyron displayed in bold letters. But she could still hear them clearly:

“Breaking News: The King and Princess have been involved in a terrible car accident. The Princess was killed immediately, and the King is currently in critical condition.”

_No_. This couldn’t be right.

“We regret to inform you this evening that the Princess died on impact-”

_Wake up_, she told herself.

“It is with a heavy heart that we report the news that the Princess-”

_Please_, she begged silently or even cried aloud, clutching to her assistant as she sobbed, _this must be a dream. Please wake me up._

Except, of course, it wasn’t a dream. It was the horrible reality that she would never see her mother again. Her mother would never be coming home. Never sit with her again on the balcony and gaze at the stars. Never dance with her again in the ballroom when they were bored or share a bottle of wine while they gossiped as if they were regular, everyday people. Never see her fall in love and get married and have children. Tears fell onto Margaret’s pillow, soaking the pure silk, as she envisioned all of the events in her life that her mother would be absent from.

As she cried, her assistant and the entirety of the palace’s staff watched all forms of media earnestly, waiting for an update on the King’s condition and monitoring the public’s reaction. Most people were asking where Margaret was and if she was unharmed. Some were calling for the responsible parties’ names to be released, for them to be arrested and prosecuted immediately. All were expressing their heartbreak and devastation.

“Princess.” Her assistant sat gently at the edge of her bed, saying even gentler, “Your father is doing well after surgery, but the recovery process may take months.”

The good news was certainly much needed but almost bittersweet to accept. “Excellent. I’m glad to hear that he’s alright, thank you.”

With the Princess’ permission, her assistant took her hands between her own. “The people need a leader now. Are you up for the task?”

She had heard the occasional person joke that she should skip ahead in the line of succession, but not like this. _Not like this_.

Margaret knew that she had no choice.

She gave herself the rest of the day to grieve. Before nine, she rose gracefully from her bed and found a black dress in her closet. Makeup allowed her to conceal the red puffiness around her eyes, but nothing could hide the pain behind them.

In the library, she sat at her father’s desk in front of a camera. She held her head high, kept her legs crossed, even though they wouldn’t even be in the frame, and greeted the live-feed with a cheerless smile. As for her cold that she had almost completely forgotten about, at least she had an excuse for the strain in her voice. “Good evening. By now, I’m sure you all have heard the horrible news of my mother’s passing. I am still struggling to accept this reality for myself, as many of you are, and I truly appreciate all of the kind words in this time of need. I will continue to ask for your support throughout this trying time.

“My father is beginning on a long road to recovery, and until then, I will be serving you as your acting Queen. I ask you to please be patient as I adjust to this new role. In this moment, I promise you that I will do everything in my power to become the leader that mother would be proud of.

“For now, I only ask you to treat each other with kindness. To stop anger. To stop searching for blame. The emotions we are feeling are natural, but allowing them to manifest into hate is not only misguided but dangerous. Take care of each other, please. And, lastly, I leave you by begging you to tell the ones that you cherish most in life how much you love them, because you never know how quickly they can be taken from you.”

The unprepared speech solidified Margaret’s place in history – her name becoming synonymous with courage and strength.

If only she associated herself with them as well.

If only she wished to be part of this royal burden.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

James cared quite a bit about being a member of the Royal Family. His life before being a royal – a _prince _– felt like a dream; actually, his current life of being royalty was the dream.

It never felt real.

It felt like a fantasy. A fairytale turned reality, and he could never turn back. He couldn’t imagine how he had been able to survive for so long without it all. All the fame and fortune, all that glittered, all the substances and chemicals that hit his bloodstream and immediately made him feel so fucking _good_. He craved it. Couldn’t live without it. Being a member of the Royal Family, along with all the perks that came with the title, was always engrained in his DNA; shame it took over twenty years to get there and realize it.

Regardless of the wasted time, he cherished every moment of it. He loved the publicity, the paparazzi. He loved the constant flashes of light, capturing his perfect angles no matter where he went. He loved the endless stream of strangers screaming out his name on the street and in his bedsheets. Instead of being a lucky bastard whose mother happened to fall in love with some guy who happened to be related to some other guy that was long-since dead and deemed to be special, he was their _god. _They worshipped him on their hands and on their knees, praised him on their backs, willing to do anything just to get a taste and grateful to be tossed aside like the rest of their congregation. What an ego trip. An acid trip of sweat and spit and forgotten names and blurry faces. A high that he always wanted to ride, floating through the air on a cloud, and there was nothing – not a damn thing – in the world that would make him leave it.

As always, he awoke reminded by his luxuries, wrapped in swaths of imported silk, keeping him cool from the warm body pressed against him. On this particular morning, she was a pretty, small thing whose yellow-not-yet-platinum-blonde hair was just as fried as her brain. Probably a wannabe model. Allyson? Bryanna? Something with an unnecessary ‘y’ in it. The stench of bleach crinkled his nose, but he pulled her closer anyway, reveling in the way she tightened her grasp on his chest. Feeling red hot already, he slowly peeled open his eyes to find her fast asleep, breathing tiny huffs of air onto his bicep. He placed gentle, playful kisses onto her forehead to rouse her, a satisfied smile creeping to his lips as her giggle resonated against his skin. When his gaze was met with hopeful green eyes, he brought his hand up to her cheek, and she felt so, so warm.

That warmth was ripped away from him in an instant.

“Get up,” a stern voice greeted him with, as the sheets were torn from the bed in one, quick movement. There was a shriek and a rush to find a cocktail dress left draped over a velvet couch and a door slammed shut.

Shameless, James continued to lay comfortably naked, now alone, in his bed, heaving a disappointed sigh and closing his eyes. He winced at the harsh sunlight that flooded the room as soon as the curtains were drawn back, and he reluctantly propped himself up on one elbow.

“You too,” said the familiar no-nonsense voice.

He opened his eyes to find a pleasant surprise in the form of a gorgeous man sitting on the edge of the bed on his other side.

Before James could either introduce himself or thank him or do both, the man leaned down and took his face between his hands, kissing him long and urgently. The kind of kiss that won Academy Awards with so much meaning and passion behind it that James truly wished knew the reasoning for it. When he pulled away, James fell forward into the empty space, licking his lips, instinctively wanting more. He tasted like James’ favorite liquor and smelled like James’ cologne: James’ favorite type of man. “Can’t wait to see you again on the 27th,” the mystery man said, and James nodded.

_The 27th? _He didn’t even know today was. James cleared his throat, pretending to know the answer to both. “Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else, baby.” He indulged himself in one last incredible kiss before watching fondly as the man left his room with nothing on but a pair of James’ boxers.

_Huh. _

With a shrug, he looked to Natasha for any sort of clue that that person had been real or a hallucination from whatever the hell he took the night before.

His personal assistant gave no such indication for either possibility and simply threw a ball of musty-smelling fabric at his face. “Put these on.”

He lifted a – shirt, maybe? – with one finger, eying it with trepidation. “What _are _these?”

“Clothes for today,” Natasha snapped and snapped his dresser drawer shut, throwing him a pair of underwear with disgust like a rancid fastball.

“And today is?” he asked and began to dress himself – something he _could_, in fact, do without assistance. 

“Painting. The artist is here to start sketching the new portraits for the Throne Room.”

He stuck his legs into the pants and immediately winced at the itchy material. Slowly, he started on the button-down, cringing when he found it to be made of an equally terrible-feeling velvet mixture. “And I have to wear these, _why_?”

“Tradition.”

“Oh, right, because now is the perfect time to begin follow tradition.”

Their situation had been anything _but _traditional, and James took pride in his royal firsts. First (soon-to-be) stepson of the King. First American Royal. First openly bisexual Royal. When the King and his mother first acknowledged their relationship, the backlash had been vile. Every newspaper and magazine spewed hate as their main headline. For weeks, the media remained in an uproar until one night, the King broadcasted a harsh talking-to, demanding respect for the future Princess and Prince. It was one of the few times that James admitted his appreciation for his future stepfather. After that, the distaste for himself and his mother was spoken only in hushed tones.

Oh, there were still plenty of people who vocally hated James. They voiced how much of a disgrace he was to the family name, which he was, and how he misused their wealth, which he did, and how they wished he was more like Margaret, which he would never be. But none of them mattered. He had found his core group of diehard supporters who idolized him and desired to please him just as much as he pleased them.

So, no. Tradition was not in the picture, even if it was to be illustrated by some artist in _the _picture.

With her back turned to him, leading the way out of his bedroom, Natasha shrugged. “Just be thankful you’re not wearing what Margaret is wearing.”

When they met her and her assistant outside of the Throne Room, he understood. “What the fuck is that?” His mouth gaped open, too horrified to laugh. His soon-to-be stepsister appeared to be devoured by a mountain of old, white lace in a dress that looked as if it were fashioned out of stacks of vintage doilies.

She stood rigid and tense. “Something with a corset that I’m pretty sure might kill me.” With what seemed to be all her might, she struggled to take a shallow sip of air. “Yours is backwards.”

As James looked down, Natasha whipped her head back and sighed entirely through her nose. “Damn it, James.”

In one quick movement, she dragged her hand down the front of his shirt, ripping apart the pearl buttons and roughly pulling it off his back. He smirked and aimed his attention at Margaret’s assistant Clint who had been hopelessly in love with Natasha for as long as he’d known him. “Why, Miss Romanoff, at least allow me to buy you dinner before you undress me like this.”

Natasha responded by tugging his shirt extra hard to make him stumble backward, fastening the buttons tight in the back like a straitjacket. When worn this way, his shirt revealed an affront to fashion with the same hideous lace as Margaret’s dress taking form as an ascot sewn into the collar. He groaned. “What the fuck is this?” Two nights ago, he was walking down a Paris runway, and now, he was wearing a 70s disco, pirate costume that would be immortalized on the palace wall for every damn tourist to see.

Margaret let out weak wheezes of laughter. “Oh, God, it hurts.”

“Man,” Clint said, blinking with his eyebrows hidden up above his shaggy bangs, “if the King still doesn’t see the whole not-straight thing, he sure will now.”

Natasha looked the most intimidating with a grin on her face, as she uncharacteristically joined in the fun, keeping her voice deadpan as usual, “I loved you in _Interview with the Vampire_.”

Gasping in pain, Margaret placed a hand over her ribs. “Oh, _fuck_,” she said, just as her father opened the door behind them.

At the sight of the King, Natasha and Clint stopped laughing and snapped to attention. He sighed, shook his head, and sent a disappointed look at James, like _he _was the one who had taught her how to swear. “Come on. We’ve been waiting.”

Margaret followed her father through the doorway, but before he could as well, Natasha stopped him in the hallway. She peeled down his collar. “Is that really a hickey on your neck?”

James shrugged. “Probably. Which one do you think did it?”

Ignoring him, she sighed once again. “The artist can see that.”

“And I highly doubt he’d include it. Not to mention the fact that he’ll probably be a little distracted by this shit,” he said, poking a finger through the lace.

She nodded but crossed her arms. “When are you going to stop acting like a teenager?”

James rolled his eyes and ‘fixed’ his collar as best as he could without ripping the decoration clean off. “When it stops being fun.”

Entering the room, he wondered that if the artist could see as minute details as slight discoloration on his neck, would he be able to see the coke trapped under his nails?

The Throne Room never radiated an air of comfort. With furniture moved to specific locations, marked by tape, and bright industrial lights shining on them like a set, it felt even more hollow. _This was going to be a miserable few hours. _His mother was dressed in yet another atrocious dress but wore it with grace, and the King was dressed in his classic military uniform. They were all propped on seats that they never used, dolls in a little doll house – odd, seeing his family utterly still, mannequin-like, in fixed, unnatural poses. The King held his hand against his chest, while his mother clasped her hands, and the artist had just finished directing Margaret into her own pose. “Perfect, Princess, thank you,” came a delightfully deep, American voice from the man who was masked in shadow between the lights.

_Oh_, James thought, _that was nice. _He took his seat in an ornamental armchair across from Margaret in the front row with their parents behind him, squinting to hopefully see a pretty face to match the pretty voice. Before he could prepare himself, his vision became overwhelmed by broad shoulders in a slightly too-tight t-shirt and not a pretty face but a _gorgeous _face. _Oh, that was very nice_. “Prince James,” the artist said, and James adored the way his name sounded in his mouth, “pleasure to meet you.”

In the next moment, he found himself participating in a firm handshake. He admired the man’s large hand, long fingers, and strong, confident grip. Damn, it was early, but he didn’t mind batting his eyelashes before breakfast. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

They both allowed their hands to linger in each other’s grasp, and James realized that maybe this wouldn’t be as miserable as he thought.

He darted his eyes over to Margaret to see if she was annoyed by their interaction, but instead, her face was flushed a deep red from either the corset or the lights or, perhaps, the artist, himself, who she stared at with wide eyes.

After matching James’ grin, the artist returned to his own stool behind a giant easel and canvas. “As I’ve explained to the others, you all won’t be sitting here for hours. In this short session, I simply aim to outline the portrait as a whole, getting a general idea of your figures and positions. That way, when we meet individually for me to fill in the details, I won’t have to worry about clothing or anything else overlapping incorrectly.”

James hardly listened, considering a bit too intently how to subtly sneak in a comment about gladly showing off his “figure and positions” without gaining too much attention from the others, and ultimately, decided against saying anything. He could save that for his “individual” meeting.

“So, Prince, please feel free to choose a position that is comfortable and you feel that you can hold for a while. You’re allowed breaks, but it helps when we can minimize them.” James nodded and sat back a little further in the chair before settling with a satisfied shrug; the artist, however, didn’t seem too impressed. “Maybe sit up a little straighter and cross your ankle behind the other – no, your other one. Yeah, just like that.”

James knew absolutely nothing about the man but knew that he loved taking orders from him. “Is this alright then?”

“Excellent,” he said. “As long as you’re comfortable.”

“Of course.” James nodded but felt quite the opposite. The lamps burned hot, and the lights themselves triggered hangover symptoms that he hadn’t felt since college when he had no alcohol tolerance. The chair was unbelievably hard with a cushion that offered no padding. The thatched-woven material of his pants stretched against his chafed inner thighs, making him think back on whether or not the mystery man in his bed had had a beard. Mystery Man #2 in front of him clearly did not, clean shaven and with a jawline that needed no help from facial hair to make any sharper. Yeah, that would feel nice – a smooth glide of skin on skin. As he heard the sound of a pencil etching into the canvas, James was reminded of the artist’s hands. The way those long fingers could easily wrap around-

“James.” The man startled him out of his fantasy. “You’re more than welcome to change your pose, but you’ll have to let me know.”

Glancing down, he realized that he had subconsciously readjusted his position, shifting in his seat and unlocking his heel from the other to slightly widen his stance. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. This is fine,” he said and returned to the original pose.

It _would _be fine – as long as he stayed focused and cooled his thoughts. If she wasn’t conserving air, he knew that Margaret would have scoffed.

He spent the next few agonizing moments by concentrating with absolute focus. Willing his muscles not to move turned out to be harder than he anticipated when he had sweat dripping down his back, catching in his shirt, and the feeling of damp velvet making his skin crawl. Could the artist see his bloodshot eyes and the way he twitched in his seat? If he did, he said nothing about it, simply absorbing himself in his work, occasionally flicking his eyes above the canvas, until he broke the unbearably tense silence. “You’re free to talk – and, uh, blink. You don’t have to sit like statues.”

From behind him, his mother let out a sigh as laughter. “Oh, thank you, Steven. I can’t stand the hum of these lights.”

“They’re quite warm, aren’t they?” the King asked, stating the obvious.

Fervently, Margaret nodded, full cheeks still flushed and her chest seizing tightly, as she appeared overheated _and _desperately trying to breathe. “Are we almost done?”

_Steven _drew one final line. “Just finished, actually. Thank you all so much for being patient.”

As soon as he said that, Margaret darted from her seat, excusing herself from the room and apologizing under her breath, as her hands fumbled with the ties on the back of her dress. _Steven_ watched her leave, like the rest of the family, with an amused smile on his lips. With the attention moved off of him for more than a few seconds, James stared at him impatiently: _look at me, look at me, look at me_.

James got his wish the same way he got everything else. “As for individual sessions, this afternoon, I believe I start first with you, Prince.”

James flashed his teeth in a wide grin. He loved being first for anything, and he loved the idea of spending time one-on-one with _Steven_. “Looking forward to it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Alright, I need to know everything I possibly can about this artist right the fuck now,” he said, as he joined Margaret, Clint, and Natasha in the hallway.

“Ask your sister,” Clint suggested, helping Margaret shimmy out of her dress.

“She knows him?”

Margaret rolled her eyes, shoving the material past her hips, and Clint nodded. “He called her _Peggy _when she walked into the room.”

_Oh, she _knows _him. _Putting that fact aside, James couldn’t help but smirk, holding a chuckle at bay. “Any reason for that particular nickname, uh, Peg?”

“Oh, fuck off,” she said after catching her breath with long, deep breaths. Stepping out of the fabric pooled at her ankles, she crossed her arms over the sheer, white slip that she was still wearing. “I can hardly say I know him. We met twice while organizing an event together.”

“Met, as in-?” He rose his eyebrows to finish the question.

“Met, as in a charity run and lunch. Fucking hell, James, does the entire world revolve around sex to you?”

He raised his hands in defense. “Forgive me for wanting to make sure that the people the Princess sleeps with are decent human beings.”

“Even if we did sleep together, it’d be none of your business.”

“Why?” he asked, smirking, relishing in pestering her. “Something to hide?”

She gave him a cool once-over and moved her hands to her hips. “I can _proudly _name the people I’ve slept with in my lifetime. Can you do the same for the past week?”

Standing away with their backs pressed against the wall, Clint whistled, while Natasha snorted and not-so-quietly muttered, “He can’t even name the people he slept with last night.”

“Really? Because I can name at least three,” Clint said, eyes gleaming with opportunity. “Louis, Lestat, Armand.”

James cut off their laughter with a glare and turned his attention back to Margaret. “Are you really giving me a slut-shaming lecture right now?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. I think it’s great that you enjoy yourself, you’re safe, and everything you do is with consent. I’d just prefer you didn’t pretend to care about _my _well-being when you’re only trying to further your own interests.”

_Fair enough_. Shrugging, he cocked his head to the side, observing the doors to the Throne Room before turning back to the other three. “Well, you can add one name to my list for this week:

“Steven.” 

Extending his hand, he was almost – _almost_ – taken aback by the saccharine sweetness that coated his voice. The last time he had worked this hard to impress someone, she was a blockbuster movie star at a late-night after-party, not a damn artist. But this artist was – _different_, for some reason. For some reason, between their meetings, James spent his entire steamy shower considering the best course of action. James never wasted his flirtation, realizing early in his new lifestyle that a direct approach was always ideal. If the person wasn’t interested, he could move on to the next person in line, and if they were, they could skip the unnecessary verbal foreplay and move straight to the main event. _Easy._ (Not that anyone involved in the situation was easy – except, well, James may have been a little easy.)

Regardless of how much of a challenge he was to take to bed or all of the countless lines that he came up with while conditioning his hair, a _handshake_, of all things, was how he ultimately started things off in the moment. He blamed the heat and glare from the damn lights for his momentary lapse in flirtatious judgment.

“Prince James,” Steven said, glancing at their clasped hands and saying it almost like a question, as if he was just as baffled by this second introduction as James was. “Good to see you again.”

Up close, James realized that seeing him again was far better than _good_. With muscle definition from his forearms to biceps that should have been airbrushed on, the man shaking his hand could have easily been ripped from the pages of a men’s health/sports magazine. Usually, James had no issue with wooing stunning, model-esque men with gym routines he envied, but knowing that Margaret had already wooed him gave him an extra challenge. An extra incentive to get his tongue out of his throat to say something witty or suggestive. Except, all he could come up with was, “You as well.”

Steven took his seat behind the easel, as James took his own. With the two of them alone, they sat much closer than they were in the morning; of course, they weren’t actually alone, with James’ entourage of security lining the perimeter of the room – all black suits and ear-piece intercoms and harsh looks aimed directly at the two of them and yet somehow disinterestedly far off in the distance. Their presence certainly did not create the most welcoming atmosphere, but James had grown accustomed to the constant monitoring. The important aspect of this one-on-one arrangement was that if James wanted to, he could easily brush their ankles together, playing footsie, flirting like he was at the bar instead of this stiff set.

Steven began to realign his canvas. “You remember your pose from earlier?”

Of course he did, but James smirked. “I’m not sure, actually. Maybe you could show me?”

In his head, James saw the artist dropping to his knees to take the lead and move him exactly where he wanted him to be, looking up at him through long, blonde lashes. In reality, Steven just showed him the sketch of his own figure by simply turning the canvas around, looking less than impressed. “Other ankle,” he said, automatically, as soon as James mirrored his pose from earlier, as if he was expecting him to make the same mistake.

_Hm_, James thought. Rarely did anyone ever tell him that he was wrong. If that wasn’t bold enough of an action, Steven’s thin, white t-shirt appeared so casual that no one who was actually familiar with the proper etiquette would ever wear it to meet the _Royal Family_. James admired that, and James particularly admired the blatant once-over and suggestion he received. “Feel free to get comfortable.”

_Finally_. His fingers flew to the back of his neck to start working on the ancient buttons. “Well, if you insist-”

“Maybe,” Steven interrupted before his shaking fingertips could even get a solid grip on one of the pearls, “not that comfortable.”

Despite the look of pity that Steven gave him, James felt that he was definitely hiding a smile behind those blue eyes.

The artist held a palette and paintbrush this time. “Are we still allowed to talk?” James asked.

There was a pause before Steven nodded hesitantly. “Sure.”

_Good_. James could guide this conversation wherever he wanted. “So, what’s it like being a painter?”

“Not bad,” Steven said with a shrug. “I’m getting paid a six-figure salary to spend a week painting four people in stupid outfits. Can’t complain.”

That was something they had in common: appreciating an outrageous payout for doing minimal work.

For a few moments, the artist’s gaze running a long line down James’ body was just long enough for him to forget about the atrocity that he was wearing. The reminder made him look down at the velvet in disgust.

“This gonna be hard for you?” Steven asked shortly, a little more disappointed than annoyed.

James looked down again to see his legs, unbeknownst to him, crossed the other way. “Shit, sorry.”

Rarely did James apologize – a fact Steven seemed to be aware of and take pride in, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I was commissioned by a zoo and aquarium that wanted murals for various exhibits. I’ve painted goldfish that were more still than you.”

Welcoming the playful insult, James scoffed. If he was an aquatic animal, a goldfish was absolutely not it. No, he was fluid and sexy, like a fluid and sexy fish. He racked his brain for an example of a fluid and sexy fish. A jellyfish, maybe? No. He was better than that; he was – a _shark_. Hell yeah, James was a fluid and sexy shark.

As if listening in, Steven blinked slowly, waiting for James’ idiotic inner monologue to end before dropping a very telling glance to James’ feet.

James crossed his ankles the other way and rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s – can’t you just take a picture and paint that?”

“_I _would,” Steven said, almost hurrying his brushstrokes while James’ legs were crossed correctly, “but tradition says otherwise, which I know preserving is of no interest to you.”

Sitting up a little taller, James grinned. “Ah, so you _are _familiar with me.”

“When I applied, I had to search for quite a few reference photos of you, and let’s just say your Google search suggestions are pretty revealing.”

James laughed. “James Barnes – nudes, still number one?”

“I believe that was up there,” Steven said, “along with James Barnes – rehab.”

“No thanks.”

“James Barnes – dead.”

“Goodnight, sweet prince.”

“James Barnes – gay.”

“Almost.”

“James Barnes – sex tape.”

“Candid.”

“And James Barnes – single?”

“Respectable,” James said. “Well, damn, I sure hope that after all this time I haven’t been secretly married.”

Steven gave a shy smile to his palette. “I was hoping that referred to your upcoming music career.”

James met his eyes and smiled back. “You really think I could sell music?”

“Oh, I think you could sell anything with your name on it.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,” James said with their eyes still locked.

Steven stared right back. “I’m not sure if I meant for it to be.”

_Oh_. This painting thing was turning out to be a lot more fun than he was expecting.

For a moment, James watched him focus on the painting. “You mentioned looking me up for reference pictures to apply for this. Does that mean you’ve drawn me before?”

“Yeah. I had to draw all of you. Bunch of different poses. Over and over and over.”

“At least finding a bunch of different poses of me wasn’t difficult.”

Steven ignored him. “The other customers at my regular café probably think I’m a stalker, filling multiple pages in a journal with your face.”

“Huh,” James said. “I can’t tell if that’s endearing or creepy.”

“I’m definitely leaning more towards creepy.”

Still, James was definitely interested. “Can I see them?”

“Yeah,” Steve said with the hesitant uncertainty more characteristic of a question than an answer. “Yeah, I guess so.”

James mocked his hesitation with a short, dramatic gasp. “Why? Are they in a _French _style?”

“Well, that’s not exactly how that quote goes, but no, sorry. The journal’s in my bag which I don’t have with me right now.”

“Can I see them later then?” For the second time that morning, James found himself batting his eyelashes, unusually eager. “You have any plans for tonight?”

Steven gave a short huff of a laugh, setting down his paintbrush and checking his hand for paint before wiping it down his face. “Considering I had to take a red-eye to even get here this morning and take a taxi from the airport to here, a shower and early bedtime sounds fantastic.”

“I have a shower. Save you a trip.”

Smirking, he almost seemed to consider it. “I have a five-star suite to myself that your parents are paying for. It’d be rude of me to pass up that offer.”

“Sounds lonely to me,” James said, realizing the twinge of irony to his words and knowing that was certainly a fair point. “Although, it’s rude to pass up _my _offer as well.”

Glancing at his watch, Steven conveniently dropped his gaze, dropping his voice when he appeared to remember that there were other people in the room. “Perhaps I’ll consider it tomorrow.”

James nodded slowly with a casual shrug and wished that his expressive face didn’t betray his cool demeanor. “Perhaps,” he repeated.

Comfortably, they remained silent for a minute or so until James noticed that he had brought his ankle up to his knee. He sighed as he uncrossed his legs. “It’s fine,” Steven said. “Our time’s up anyway.”

James cocked an eyebrow. “That short?”

“That’s how long I was told you could handle,” Steven replied, mouth twitching as he seemed to be trying very hard not to grin.

James, however, did grin. Almost impressed, he rose from his chair in one movement – not exactly graceful but well-rehearsed enough to be a party trick. He approached the artist slowly, carefully. “Oh, you’ll find out tomorrow.” Waiting for Steven to meet his eyes, he leaned just a bit closer. Immediately, at the very first flash of blue, he whispered, “Don’t forget your journal.”

Steven swallowed, jaw tensing, and James laughed, pulling away.

Still laughing as he reached the hallway, Natasha greeted him with a look of concern. “You good?”

“I’m amazing.” He walked past her and called back over his shoulder, “Come on! Get this goddamn thing off me.”

She sighed but followed anyway. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes, actually.” He stopped abruptly, allowing her to catch up, recalling what had been itching in the back of his mind all morning. “Can you tell me what the fuck is happening on the 27th?”


	2. A Friendly Competition

“I met someone today.” James sighed, folding his hands behind his head, as he rested back against his mound of pillows. 

“_Goddammit it, James_,” a voice hissed from under the covers. She raised her head and pushed the sheets off of her. “Every time – every single time! This is what you do."

Rolling his eyes, he rolled onto his side to face her where she had propped herself against his pillows with her arms crossed. “Do what?”

“Every time we do this, you feel the need to talk about someone else. I mean, can you at least pretend you want me to be here?”

“Of course I want you here,” he sighed and smirked, reaching out for her hand. “You’re like number three on my list of go-to booty-calls.”

She scoffed and batted his hand away before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “Okay. We’re done here.”

Blinking lazily slow, James watched her slip into her pants, making no effort to convince her to stay. “Baby, come on,” he called out with little to no urgency.

“Why not call numbers one or two on the list, or how about whoever the fuck you met today who you wish was here instead of me?”

“I would, but he didn’t want to.”

Her gasp sounded as sarcastic as her comment, “Someone not interested in James Barnes? Why, I haven’t heard of such a thing.”

“Oh, he’s definitely interested – just not tonight. Apparently, his hotel room was more enticing than yours truly.”

“What?” she asked with a short huff of a laugh. “So, he’s thinking of you while jacking off into his sheets at the Corinthia?”

He sat up, glad to see that she had finally joined the conversation, and leaned down to find his own pants. “I was more picturing him being in the shower. All hot and steamy and pressed against the glass.”

“For fuck’s sake! Is that really what you think of when you’re with me?” she asked, throwing him his shirt.

“Of course not.”

Crossing her arms after pulling on her top, she didn’t seem convinced. “You know, I was going to invite you to Karma tonight, but I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

“Please,” he said with a smirk, as he rose from the bed. “You know damn well I’m the only reason you get in there in the first place.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

James woke on his own volition and immediately wished he hadn’t. His body ached, sore, and not in a fun way; he could feel bruises forming beneath his skin. _Christ_, had he gotten into a fight?

Attempting and failing to open his eyes, he found the curtains drawn back and the room – bright – too damn bright. He laid on top of soft, smooth silk, so he knew that he was, at the very least, in his own bed. There was noise: maybe the birds outside that he had asked countless times to be gotten rid of by whatever means necessary. Except, he recognized the sound – the voice. It was his own voice.

_Fuck_. He pried his eyes open to see Natasha and Clint sitting on the chaise lounge at the end of his bed, looking over a tablet together. “The fuck did I do last night?” he asked, his voice coming out gravelly and hoarse.

Nonchalant, Clint simply lifted the tablet and restarted the video. “See for yourself.”

When his eyes adjusted to the bright screen, he saw the setup of a celebrity gossip YouTube channel and probably a twenty-year-old girl in bright pink lipstick. “The soon-to-be Prince had a rough night after getting kicked out of an exclusive London nightclub for confronting a group that threatened him with homophobic slurs. He shared a few choice words with paparazzi outside in regard to those who take issue with his sexuality.”

The video cut to shaky footage of him sitting at the top of the stairs that led to the club’s entrance, surrounded by his friends and the press, wasted, and touting nonsense through slurred speech. “_King _James had a boyfriend most of his life, and that motherfucker’s name is _still _on the cover of most Bibles!”

“Oh God,” James groaned.

Clint smiled wide and shook his head. “Man, I’ve seen this clip, like, fifteen times now, and I still have absolutely no idea what point you’re trying to make.”

“I don’t think there is one,” Natasha said.

“Are you planning on translating scripture? Because if you are, you have to let me be the first to read it.”

James ignored them both and winced as he watched himself fall down the stairs, putting together the pieces of how he got the bruises. “James took a bit of a tumble, but our sources report that he is doing just fine.”

_Fine_ wasn’t exactly the word he would have used, but he guessed it wasn’t necessarily incorrect.

“Come on,” Natasha said, standing to face him. “You have a meeting with the painter in ten minutes.”

_Looking like this? _“Give me ten more minutes to sleep.”

“If the you from last night wanted to give you ten more minutes to sleep, he wouldn’t have gotten shit-faced and given soapbox history lectures at three in the morning.”

“Fine. Then just let me shower.”

“Not enough time. Put these on and follow me.” She took a bit too much enjoyment in handing him the velvet costume.

Steven showed as much sympathy as Natasha. “Seems like you had a fun evening,” he said, a judgmental air to the way he looked down at him to begin painting again.

The lights made his head throb, and he wished he had brought a pair of sunglasses; Steven could guess what color his eyes were, for all he cared. “Does everyone get a fucking press release for every time I get drunk and do something stupid?”

He held up his hands defensively, paintbrush wet with the purple of his shirt. “It’s not every day my subject shows up on the morning news, tripping down a flight of stairs and talking shit about his ancestors.”

“Okay, he’s technically not _my_ ancestor.”

“Oh, I am well aware that you weren’t born into the Royal Family.”

“Huh,” James said, clicking his tongue with a satisfied smirk, glancing back at his security. “He takes one shower and comes back with a cardigan and an attitude.”

Steven looked down at his sweater, as if questioning his decision to throw it over his t-shirt. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I’m a big fan of the Mister Rogers look, but I think you’d look better without it.” He actually appreciated how low his voice sounded but realized that Steven’s raised eyebrows weren’t entirely encouraging. “We don’t have to analyze the first part of that.”

“We don’t have to analyze the second either.”

Content, James crossed his ankles the right way on the first try and leaned back in the chair, allowing the backrest to relieve some of the pressure in his shoulders. “At least being exhausted will keep me from moving my legs so much.”

“I finished your legs yesterday. You can do whatever the hell you want with them,” he said, and seeing the glimmer in James’ eyes, appeared to regret the words as soon as they fell out of his mouth.

“Oh, really?” he asked, propping an foot on the chair and stretching out his other leg. He ran his hand slowly up his thigh, quirking an eyebrow. “Even this?”

Steven shook his head, sparing an apologetic glance to the men in suits. “You’re terrible.”

“You really _are _familiar with me.”

“I probably should have clarified that you’re welcome to do whatever you’d like with your legs as long as it doesn’t affect your top half.”

James sighed and returned to the original position. “Good, because I couldn’t hold that for long.”

Steven made an amused noise in the back of his throat, and James realized that this man was getting more and more interesting by the second.

“You always been a painter?” James asked after watching his fingers move so perfectly and precisely.

“In a way,” he said. “I’ve been interested in art for as long as I can remember, but I didn’t start pursuing it professionally until the end of my military career.”

“Oh, I love a man in uniform.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Thank you for your service.”

Steven frozen. “Wow, you’re _genuinely _terrible.”

James shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m _genuinely _interested.”

As if considering whether or not to play along, Steven decided to change the subject and returned to painting. “What about you? What did you do before becoming a Prince?”

He was fishing for a specific answer; James couldn’t guess what or why, though. “Nothing important. I went to college, got a degree in something I remotely cared about, and worked as an engineer, of all things. I got an internship with this mad scientist type genius who was a nightmare to work for until I got my calling to be here.”

“Yeah?” Steven laughed. “Who calls you for that?”

“My mom, actually. To tell me that the King would be visiting New York.”

_“He’s coming to the restaurant,” she said, simple as that. _

_Even over the phone, James acknowledged, “You don’t sound thrilled.”_

_“They’re making me look after him.”_

_As head waitress and easily their hardest worker for over ten years, James assumed nothing less. “And that’s an issue?”_

_Her smile could be heard from over the line. “No matter where they’re from, rich people are always dicks.”_

James found himself smiling, staring off into the corner of the room, recalling the memory. Steven allowed him to reminisce before asking, “So, everything between your mom and the King happened pretty quickly?”

“Oh, immediately,” he said, nodding. “Fate. Or soulmates. Or whatever.”

Steven grinned at his tone of voice. “Dare I say: true love?”

James made a noise of disgust. “Don’t know her.”

“And here I thought James Barnes ranting about King James’ long-term boyfriend was a subtle indication of him being a hopeless romantic.” Steven laughed. “I guess I won’t be coming back in a few years to paint _your _wedding pictures then.”

“Committed relationship? I’ll pass. Sounds like a responsibility for Margaret.”

With his eyebrows raising up to his hairline, James’ first thought was how terrible of a poker player he must have been with tells like that. “Oh, she’s seeing someone?”

“No, but she’s the one who believes in that true love bullshit.”

Looking down at the paints he was mixing, Steven smirked. “I was starting to think it would take a grand gesture to sweep you off your feet.”

Feeling his own eyebrows raise up to his hairline, James reminded himself that _he_ was a terrible poker player. The cardigan was looking better already. James grinned – the same coy and indulgent grin for every time he got what he wanted. “Oh, you’re more than welcome to wine and dine me. Just fuck me afterwards and see yourself to the exit.”

“Wow,” Steven said, shocked like he was unsure whether to be offended or impressed. “And that’s how you plan on spending the rest of your life? Just one stranger in your bed to the next?”

James rolled his eyes, crossing his legs out of pure spite. _Seriously? This again? And after seeming perfectly content with being one of those strangers? _“It’s called meaningless sex,” James said. “You should try it sometime.”

Scoffing, Steven shook his head and put down his paintbrush. “Sure. I’ll make a note of it in my journal. Which I brought, by the way, if you’re still interested – in the drawings.”

“Are you kidding?” James loosened his stance. “Of course I want to look at pictures of myself.”

As he opened the bag that laid at his feet, Steven appeared to hesitate, as if regretting the offer. Still, he handed James the notebook and directed him to the sticky note that marked his own section. James smirked. “This is a very well-organized serial killer journal.”

Steven shrugged. “I told you the other café patrons probably think I have a sick obsession.”

Flipping through the pages, James didn’t mind the obsession at all. He recognized most of the images – small sketches of his tabloid candids, wearing sunglasses and holding coffee, and full spreads of his editorial covers that hung in frames along his bedroom wall. They were near perfect recreations, so much so that he almost forgot that he was smiling down at drawings and not photographs. Without any embellishment, he said, “These are incredible.”

Steven looked down at his own work, appreciating them as well. “Thank you.”

“These must have taken forever.” Fascinated, he turned another page to see himself in even more proses from red carpet events to his social media selfies. Steven simply shrugged in reply, and James grinned at the next page which was composed of incredibly detailed drawings of his face. “Did you enjoy drawing me?”

Almost shyly, despite bearing his soul open on the paper, Steven slipped his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. “You’re not hard to look at when you’re still, and you have very interesting features for an artist to try to capture.”

“Oh, do I?”

Steven nodded. “You have sad eyes.”

Somehow, James had heard that before.

Without giving it much thought, he flopped back to a random page toward the beginning, landing on a drawing of his mother beside a rose bush in the palace gardens. _Aw_. The picture was taken not long after they arrived, and Steven perfectly captured the way the sun highlighted her face, pure joy radiating from her beaming grin.

“Amazing,” James muttered mostly to himself and turned to the very first page.

Steven cleared his throat, as his hand twitched from his pocket, like he was going to reach out and stop him.

Only making him more curious, James peered down at the drawing, unable to place the origins of this particular picture of himself. He squinted and lifted the book closer to his face, while Steven’s stare felt uneasily intense against his skin. “Huh,” James said aloud. On the page, he looked impossibly young with a relaxed, playful smile on his lips. His short hair was tousled, and he had one arm behind his head. Bare-chested, he appeared to be lounging against an invisible bed.

“James.” Steven’s voice sounded tense, urgent.

James was anything but, beginning to ask slowly, “Have we-”

“_James_."

At the harsher tone, James looked up to see a mixed look of horror and disgust on Steven’s face. He looked back down at the page to see drops of red fall onto the corner of the drawing. Raising his fingers quickly to his upper lip, he pulled them away to see blood covering his fingertips. “Shit,” he said and pinched his nose. The few drops had already seeped into the paper, blossoming and spreading red across the page. The only other color was a hint of pale, pale blue, which could have easily been overlooked, in his eyes that vacantly stared back at him.

“Here,” Steven said, grabbing his sketchbook from him. Holding the clean corner, he ripped out the page and handed it to James. “Take it.”

“I’m sorry. This shouldn’t take too long to stop, but if you’re free later, I’d love for us to continue getting to know each other more.”

Steven shook his head. “I have other plans, and I think I’ve already learned everything I need to know about you.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Fine. _That was completely and totally and utterly fine – is what he repeated to himself for the rest of the day. If he wasn’t interested, he wasn’t interested; except, James knew he was interested, because how could he not be interested? He just wasn’t interested today, and that was fine.

The build-up of anticipation made the tension better anyway, right?

Taking his mind off of reassuring himself that he was still attractive, he received a text from a friend. _Got two extra backstage passes for some Irish band your sister likes. Wanna go?_

_are they hot??_

His friend attached a picture.

James shrugged. _sure._

_Want me to make the invites out to James and Margaret?_

Rifling through the leather jackets in his wardrobe, James smirked before replying. _actually…_

His friend sent him another picture – this one being two lanyards with one placard reading _James _and the other _Peggy_. Keeping the picture open on his phone, James trekked over to Margaret’s wing after settling on a sleek bomber.

“Margaret, dearest,” he called through the door, knocking and opening it at the same time, politely barging in. “I have a ticket with your name on it that’s at least ten times more interesting than whatever you’re doing now.”

He expected to find her sitting on her couch, propping her feet up as she read a book, as she usually did on week nights. The velvet lounge, however, remained unoccupied, and so did her bed which laid cleanly made.

“Margaret?” he tried again, eyeing her walk-in closet and bathroom around the corner.

She didn’t reply, but he could still hear her. Her laughter floated up to the room, carried along with the breeze that rustled the curtains on the balcony doors that were left open. Leaning over the railing of her balcony, James found her at a table-for-two amidst the rose bushes of the palace gardens. Across from the candlelight sat Steven.

_Oh._

They laughed together over glasses of wine, completely unaware of James watching them from above and attempting to process what he saw. Margaret wore her hair down in her natural curls and one of her favorite red dresses to match her favorite red lipstick, like she was trying to impress him. Steven wore a crisp button-down, as if packed for this exact occasion, and a handsome grin, like he was trying to impress her.

_Oh_.

So that’s why her face flushed all throughout their first meeting. Why he asked if she was dating anyone. Why she avoided discussing their history together. And why he wasn’t interested.

_Yet._

James spent the rest of his evening trying not to think about it, trying to focus on the music from where he stood off to the side of the stage. The lyrics were heady and whiney and about someone’s dead fictional wife, but he maintained intense eye contact with one of the band members who seemed to be as uninterested in the songs as James was. Following him to the dressing room after the show, James reminded himself that he was falling to his knees because he always had a thing for bassists and not because he was the only blonde in the band.

_Fine_, James accepted while he was lying in bed. Maybe he was more interested in Steven than Steven was interested in him. Maybe Steven was more interested in Margaret. That was fine, except for the fact that James knew he was far too competitive to give up on charming the artist that easily.

This was nothing more than a little sibling rivalry. A friendly competition.

If Margaret wanted to make this a competition, then James was more than willing to enter the fight.


	3. A Real Introduction/Thottie Things in Chairs

James sensed the uncharacteristic tension as soon as he sat in the chair that felt even harder than usual. The ringing in his ears, still persistent from the concert the night before, seemed somehow amplified by the lamps, and he winced. He crossed his legs tightly, tucking one ankle behind the other.

Flicking his gaze up once from his nails, he feigned no interest when he asked, “How was your date?”

“What?”

James rolled his eyes; the dumb routine was cute – but not on him. It didn’t go with the cardigan. “Your dinner. With Margaret.”

“Oh,” he said, so nonchalantly that it made James clench his jaw. “It was nice. Great food. Great company.”

Steven smiled with ease, and James spoke through gritted teeth. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Resting against his stool as he painted, Steven appeared to be on the verge of laughter in the same way that he looked at Margaret from across the table. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” He realized how quickly – too quickly – he responded and paused, leaning back against his own chair to mirror the artist’s lackadaisical stance. “Is it wrong for me to be concerned about who my sister is seeing?”

Steven shrugged. “I guess not. I was just wondering, with the way you brought it up, if maybe you were – oh, I don’t know – _jealous_?”

James scoffed at the way he relished in every word of that. “I don’t get jealous. I get petty and even.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Steven looked amused. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Steven nodded, drawing a few lines without even looking at the canvas, focusing his gaze solely on James’ eyes and mouth and jawline. He set down the paintbrush before rolling up his sleeves. “And how exactly do you plan on getting even now?”

James glanced back down at his nails, up to Steven’s face, back down, and smirked.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

James buried his smirk against the side of Steven’s neck, as he scratched his nails down his back. They weren’t long enough to do any real damage but still left pretty pink marks that James took pride in seeing in his vanity mirror. Steven took the liberty to start working on unbuttoning the pearls on the back of James’ shirt, undoing the first few at a torturously slow pace before growing impatient and pulling them apart the same way Natasha had done on the first day.

In the middle of kissing up and down Steven’s neck, James couldn’t help but smile when he felt the large hands exploring his back before bringing them to his front and tangling in the lace ascot.

Steven gasped and immediately pulled away when they both heard the fabric rip. “_Shit_.”

Shoving the material from his shoulders, James rolled his eyes. “When this is all over, I swear to God I’m burning this outfit,” he muttered, and Steven moaned against his mouth. “Well, damn, pyro, if I knew you were into fire, I would have grabbed my lighter.”

Steven kissed him before replying. “Just into you.”

Smirking, James looked up at his reflection. “Me too.”

James’ threw the shirt, and it presumably joined Steven’s and the cardigan that laid – somewhere on the floor. Eagerly bringing their lips back together, James jumped and wrapped his legs around Steven’s waist, impressed to find that he had no trouble lifting and supporting him. Steven walked them backward until reaching the edge of the bed where he spun and unceremoniously tossed James onto the mattress. When his back hit the sheets, James laughed, and – _Christ_, when was the last time he _laughed _during sex?

Knees straddling James’ hips, Steven climbed on top of him, running his hands down his chest before stopping at the top of his pants and slipping his fingers beneath the velvet waistband. As Steven undid the button, James fumbled with his belt, pulling it from the loops of his paint-speckled jeans. “You get this far with Margaret?” James asked, lifting his hips to gladly help shimmy out of the purple monstrosity of his pants.

Steven pulled back and pulled down his own effortlessly. “You always talk about your sister’s sex life to get off?”

James rolled his eyes but couldn’t possibly feel offended while being gifted the sight of those abs. Instantly missing the warmth of their skin flushed together, James took his face between his hands, bringing him in for a kiss and bringing them closer, closer, closer. Steven inched his hand up his thigh, and James gasped.

Someone else in the room cleared their throat.

Steven broke them apart and whipped his head around to where James’ security detail still stood at the front of the room. “Do they really need to be here for all this?”

James shooed them away with one hand while the other continued to draw lazy circles on Steven’s shoulder blade. “They’ll just wait outside, and if for some reason I feel threatened, I’ll shout out a code word, and they’ll be back in, guns blazing.”

“So,” Steven said with a smirk, “you have a safe-word with you secret service?”

James kissed him and nodded. “Yup. What do you want ours to be?”

“The hell do you think we’re gonna do that requires a safe-word?”

“Whatever you want to do to me,” James whispered, blinking slow and letting his legs fall open.

Steven swallowed and kept a tight grip on James’ thigh. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

For a split second, James saw Steven’s light blue eyes turn pitch black.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sex with Steven was nothing like he expected. He fucked in the same way he painted – precise and practiced, well-crafted as if it was something he had done for years and he did it better than anyone else. He was nothing like any of his other one-night stands. No, he held James like he wasn’t afraid of crushing something delicate or triggering the guards outside the door; he pressed into his bruises from two nights before and left new ones with his teeth. It was intimate. Intimate in the sense that if took no time at all for them to move together, instinctively knowing what the other liked so they could move _for _each other. It was pure passion. Hot and electric. It was the best he’d felt without any chemical assistance in a long time.

It was broad daylight, and he was sober, and Steven, the artist, was peppering kisses against his forehead. “You’re remarkable,” Steven said quietly, voice sounding deep from the back of his throat.

James grinned and ducked to press a quick kiss to his collarbone. “Tell me more, Steven.”

“No,” he said, leaning back and tipping James chin up to look at him directly. “It’s remarkable that after everything that just happened, you still have no fucking idea who I am.”

His tone of voice was aggressive, disappointed, like James had done something wrong. “What?”

Steven frowned, heaving an exasperated sigh. “Bucky.”

_Bucky?_

He had heard that nickname before. A lifetime ago. The last person to call him that, though, was-

“_Steve_.”

Rather than applaud or look even remotely impressed that he finally connected the dots, Steve simply sat up, while James clutched the sheets to his chest, as if _now_ was the time for modesty. “I thought – I didn’t. You’re a lot – bigger, than I remember.”

“Yeah, well. You’re a lot – more, than I remember.”

James propped himself up on one elbow, as Steve slid off the bed to start collecting his clothes. “How are you-”

“Here?”

Watching him bend over to pick up his shirt, James raised his eyebrows. _Holy shit_. Skinny, little, Steve Rogers who lived down the road, who called him “Bucky” since they were five years old, who stood beside him all throughout his father’s funeral, who was so many of his firsts. Who he didn’t even realize was in his bed.

“I was going to say, like,” he gestured up and down Steve’s body, “this?”

Steve scoffed. “A lot of chicken and a personal trainer and the guy who took your virginity doesn’t even recognize you.”

James bit the inside of his cheek, recalling a memory that he hadn’t thought of in a while – one that he purposefully tried not to conjure the image of, tucked safely away to hopefully be washed away by the booze. “I’m sorry,” he said, not even strong enough to be a whisper. Honesty tasted like blood in his mouth, sharp and bitter.

Steve shrugged as he found his t-shirt underneath the coffee table. “It’s fine. We were stupid teenagers who made stupid, intense promises to each other that we couldn’t fully understand. I’m over it.”

“I shouldn’t have abandoned you like that.” He bit down harder until the blood coated his tongue. “I – I had all these new friends, and I was finally captain of the baseball team – and you know how important that was to me-”

“Oh, that year, I learned damn well what you found important.” For someone who claimed to not be holding a grudge, the grudge certainly seemed to fit well in the palm of his hand.

“So you’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Then,” James said, “it’s just some weird coincidence that you took this job painting me, of all the people in the world?”

“Pretty much. I applied for some high-profile job and ended up being one of the fifty applicants selected which they narrowed down round by round. By the time they actually told us who we would be painting, I was basically committed. I’ll admit that knowing it was you may have motivated me a bit more to seal the deal. More in the vain of hoping I could maybe reconnect with someone, I guess, instead of – I don’t know-”

“Getting even?”

Steve scoffed. “And then I got the job, got here, and you didn’t even recognize me. But then, Bucky Barnes – _the _Bucky Barnes – was hitting on me, and I had no idea how to feel. I mean, one part of me was ecstatic; my childhood crush finally liked me back. Then, the other part was – pissed. My childhood crush who told me to be ashamed of myself was sleeping with a different guy every other night and wanted me to be one of them. I told myself that I wasn’t going to, that I _couldn’t_, but – here we are.”

“Here we are,” James repeated, and Steven sighed, standing in front of him with his clothes draped over his arm.

“And the worst part is – I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I will gladly do it again and not feel an ounce of shame, because you know what? At the end of the day, I’ll be at the height of my career, and you’ll be stuck here.” He glanced around the room from the empty bottles scattered on the floor to the candy dish filled with an assortment of prescription pills that sat so innocuously on the coffee table to James, himself, who was forced to take it all in, clinging to his sheets.

_Damn_. James blinked. For someone who claimed to not be angry, he sounded a little angry – maybe not exactly angry but _spiteful_, said with such an easy-going tone like they were in the middle of a casual conversation. “Okay.”

Steve waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, he glanced at his watch and eyed the door at the side of the room that led to James’ bathroom.

“Where are you going?” James asked, as if the answer wasn’t obvious.

“I have a meeting with the King soon, so I think I’ll take you up on that offer to use your shower,” Steve said. “I’d rather it not look completely obvious that I just finished fucking the shit out of his stepson.”

_Fair enough_.

Once he heard running water hitting tile, James collapsed back down, too drained to either remain sitting up or get up. _Steve_. He couldn’t believe it. All those years and all those miles, and here he was. He was gorgeous, as he always was, but somehow taller and muscular and found an attitude – _confidence_ that looked fantastic on him. He felt and tasted even better than he looked. James could still feel his fingerprints on his thighs, and if his ears weren’t deceiving him, he was coming back for more. Content, James was willing to wait all day for him – or until the next day at their next meeting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I don’t believe that’s what you’re supposed to be wearing,” Steve, ever the pragmatist, said when he entered the room.

James looked down at the outfit he had so expertly crafted. Black jeans that were tailored to conform exactly to his legs. A shirt made of a flowy, black, see-through satin that he could have paid fifteen bucks for in a department store but instead spent nearly a grand on for the name on the tag. He didn’t even bother to look at the price when he bought the tan, suede booties – just their red soles and the magical things they did for his legs.

Smiling sweetly, James looked back up at Steve. “See, I _would_ be wearing the old clothes, but the guy I was with yesterday just kind of ripped them off of me and threw them around my room, so I have no idea where they went. Maybe you can follow me back and help me find them.”

With almost no emotion, Steve turned the portrait around to show that his legs and torso were nearly completely finished. “I only have to clean up the highlights, sharpen some details. I can do that on my break with a picture I took of you the first day when I knew you were going to be a pain in the ass to work with.”

“Why,” James said with a community theater gasp. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

“Considering I’ve already broken quite a few of them, what’s one more?”

“What? They really told you not to sleep with me?”

“I can’t imagine it was encouraged.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure disobeying my orders and not listening to my requests _is _against the rules, so-”

“Actually,” Steve said, eyes gleaming, “I was told pretty explicitly _not _to listen to you. Just to ask whether or not you were comfortable and ignore the rest.”

“Well, I’m getting _very _uncomfortable, Steve,” James said, uncrossing his legs and leaning back in the chair.

“Then, let’s get to work. You remember your position?”

James smirked. “I’m not sure I do. Care to remind me?”

Looking at his clean palette and the paints that remained unopened for the morning, Steve appeared to be contemplating something before deciding to set down his supplies and slide off his stool. He knelt down in front of James, who felt the lights starting to make him sweat. _Shit, was he dreaming? _James let his head fall back, while Steve ran his hands down his legs, curling his fingers around his calves and stopping to cross his right ankle over his left.

Instead of going pliantly, James resisted and lifted his foot to rest under Steve’s chin, tilting up his face. Holding him still, James lowered his voice, “You shouldn’t play these games with me, Stevie. You know who always wins.”

Steve nodded, caressing the soft suede with his cheek. “Oh, I remember. I did. Because you always let me. So, do you really want to keep playing?” He slung James’ knee over his shoulder and moved even closer. Pressing his lips to his inner thigh hard enough for him to feel it through the denim, Steve looked up at James through his eyelashes. “Buck?”

“Steven!”

At the voice of the King, the two separated instantly. Steve snapped to his feet, and James casually crossed his legs, sitting up and clearing his throat, knowing that his stepfather would be none the wiser as to why Steve was on the ground. Steve blushed and ran a hand through his hair where James had taken hold. “You – your honor,” Steve stammered. James covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile and stop his laugh, admiring Steve with his face flushed red. “Your _majesty_.”

“I’m glad to see you here. Oh, James!” he said when he walked closer, proving that, of course, he was oblivious. “I’m glad to see you too. I apologize for interrupting.”

Steve appeared about ready to swallow his tongue, and James had to prevent himself from laughing. “Not a problem. We didn’t get too far anyway,” Steve said after taking a second to regain his composure.

“Ah, excellent. I had an appointment pushed back to our usual meeting time, so I was wondering if it would be possible for us to switch – maybe, James and me?”

“Of course. Does five o’ clock work for you, James?”

“Actually,” James said, not allowing him off that easy, “I have another meeting then.”

“Oh?” From behind him, the King sounded surprised.

“What are you doing?” Still in front of him, Steve sounded skeptical.

James tapped a finger against his bottom lip, briefly slipping it into his mouth just for Steve to see. “I don’t know yet. But it sounds like a very promising deal.”

“_Well_,” Steve started a bit higher pitched than he would have preferred and cleared his throat, “when you’re done with them, perhaps we can meet at, say, eight?”

“Perhaps.”

“Excellent,” the King agreed. “With that being so late, perhaps you could stay the night? We have plenty of spare rooms.”

Steve’s eyebrows reached the stratosphere, while James pressed his lips together, silently giggling. “Thank you, your majesty, for such a – kind invitation.”

James rose from his chair, turning to finally face his future stepfather, earnestly shaking his hand. “Yes, thank you."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I can’t believe the King of England set up my hookup for tonight,” Steve said with a laugh when they fell back against James’ bed in a tangle of limbs.

James traced his index finger across Steve’s lips. “I can’t get over the look on your face when he barged in.”

“He likes me, you know. I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

“Of course he does. He probably thinks you’re a good influence on me.” James rolled his eyes. “Maybe you’ll finally be the one to teach me how to throw a football.”

Moving his hand to the back of James’ neck, Steve smirked. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I will gladly teach you how to throw it back.”

Steve sharply tugged his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat, and after an embarrassingly genuine gasp, James laughed. “As if _I’m_ the one who needs lessons."

“Yeah? How about you show me.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
At some point in the night, James woke to find his face pressed against a warm body. _Weird_. Usually, this late, he would either be doing shots or doing a stranger or doing something he’d regret in the morning, not sleeping soundly in his bed while completely sober. Whoever he slept on had their arm outstretched, and James used their bicep as a firm pillow while he laid on his side. Inhaling, he smelled the familiar scent of sweat on a familiar man. This wasn’t weird; this was _Steve_. James gently brushed his knuckles against his abs, feeling the well-developed muscle and the way they rose and fell as Steve continued to sleep. 

_Weird_ didn’t exactly describe the situation in his bed, but _weird _definitely described the rest of what he was feeling. Rather than think too hard about that possibility and put those emotions into words, James drifted back to sleep.


	4. A Responsible Decision, A Chocolate Martini, and A Dirty Dance

The next time James awoke was when Steve stirred. James groaned when Steve shook his shoulder, rolling onto his other side. Steve shook his other shoulder. “Bucky.”

“What?” James rolled back over and draped his arm over Steve’s chest.

“_Bucky_.”

James opened his eyes to see Steve staring at the foot of his bed. Changing positions yet again, James laid on his back, allowing him to see Natasha standing there with her arms crossed. She nodded toward James. “You, I’m not surprised. _You_,” she nodded toward Steve, “I’m very disappointed.”

Steve shrugged as if to agree, and James just hugged him closer.

“I _would _be here to remind you that you have an appointment with the artist, but it looks like you’ve already – done that.”

“And I will gladly do it again as soon as you leave the room.”

“No, Buck, come on,” Steve said with a sigh as he slid out from under James’ weight. “We skipped your session yesterday so we could – whatever. Time to be responsible.”

James pouted, pulling his sheets up to his neck, freezing without Steve’s warmth.

“You do realize who you’re talking to, right?” Natasha asked.

“How about to make it up to you: tonight, we can do whatever you want.”

James eased his over-exaggerated frown. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

Natasha made a noise of disgust.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?” James whined. “It’ll be fun!”

“For one, I don’t want to. Two, I don’t trust you nearly enough to be in public with you. Three, I’ve been wearing this same outfit for two days now, and _four_,” Steve said, “I don’t dance.”

James rolled his eyes, perching himself on Steve’s stool while he cleaned his paints. “Okay, so first, you _should _want to-”

“Nope.”

“Second, why don’t you trust me?”

Steve answered his question simply by lifting his eyebrows at James and returning his attention to his palette.

“We aren’t the same people we were back then, Steve.”

“Oh, I am well aware.”

“Listen,” James said. “I’m not an insecure eighteen-year-old kid anymore. I’m proud of who I am, and I’m not going to take out my identity issues on you.”

Still unimpressed and a little uncertain, Steve shrugged. “Good to know.”

James sighed; the guy he had already slept with a handful of times was back to playing hard to get, but he continued anyway. “Third, for your clothes, you are more than welcome to borrow something of mine. I’m thinking something tight and low-cut.”

“I’m thinking about going back to my hotel room.”

“Perfect. I haven’t been there in a while, but I’ve been dying to make a sequel to my film debut.”

James smirked while he watched Steve connect the dots back to a conversation about James’ Google search suggestions, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head when he understood James’ reference. Forfeiting a reply, Steve asked instead, “Fourth?”

“Oh, darling, you are adorable if you think we’ll only be _dancing _at the club.”

“_We_,” Steve disagreed, “won’t be doing anything.”

Throwing up his hands, James stood from the stool, admitting defeat – somewhat. “Fine. Have fun being alone in your hotel, thinking about being out with me and being _with _me, until you decide to meet me at the club.”

As he walked away, Steve called after him, “Don’t count on it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He should have been having fun. The club was packed, and he looked hot. All of his usual friends were there, sitting in his VIP lounge, overlooking the regular crowd, pretending they were famous. Everything felt normal. Except, everyone who approached him, who he would usually deem a sure-thing, suddenly seemed so inadequate. The ratio in his drink tasted off, and the music did not match his taste.

James realized he was having a terrible time. 

At least, he _was_ until he saw someone, who was definitely more than adequate, climbing the stairs.

James met Steve by the railing, grinning ear to ear. “How’d you get in here?”

“All I had to do was mention your name at the door.” Steve shrugged. “Probably not the safest security protocol, considering all the unsavory types out there that have nefarious intentions for you.”

James bit his tongue to keep himself from laughing. “And your intentions for me are of the savory variety?”

“Always, Bucky.”

“Don’t call me that here,” James said, glancing toward his friends who were staring eagerly. “It makes it sound like you know me.”

“Do I not?”

“Not _publicly_. Unless you want to see your face plastered on the cover of every tabloid tomorrow morning, calling you my boyfriend.”

“Because I hung out with you at some skeevy nightclub?”

“Because we’ve been having a fucking conversation, instead of grinding on the floor of some skeevy nightclub.” James spotted someone with their phone out, angling it at them, and he sighed. “My friends sell all my secrets to the media.”

“Great friends.”

“Yeah, well, they give me free drinks and blowjobs whenever I ask. What else are friends for?”

Steve opened his mouth, as if to reply, before reconsidering. “Right, that’s exactly what my friends do for me.”

_Aw_. Growing up, James had essentially been Steve’s only friend – the only person who didn’t overlook him and saw all the good in his heart and listened to all his wide-eyed dreams, earning his trust which he so easily destroyed. Hopefully, his new, content, responsible adult friends wouldn’t make the same stupid mistakes as he did. “I’d love to meet your friends,” James said, realizing the implications of that phrase far too long after it had tumbled out of his mouth.

Steve realized them immediately, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You really don’t think about the things you say, do you?”

Taking his hands in his own, James swayed into his easy laughter before recognizing a flash of white in the corner of his eye as being from a camera and not a strobe light. “Come buy me a drink, and I’ll say all the stupid shit you want to hear.”

They sat at the end of the bar with a chair between them, keeping up the charade for as long as possible. “If you had no idea who I was, just some guy at the club who caught your eye, what would you get me?” James asked.

“Probably the number for the therapist I know.” James rolled his eyes, but playing along, Steve eyed him up and down. “Jack and Coke.”

James scoffed. “A six-figure salary, and you’d buy me a Jack and Coke?”

Shrugging, Steve continued to run his eyes all along his designer top, as if picturing how to pull it apart thread by thread. “Simple,” he said, explaining his choice of drink while alluding to something else entirely, “and goes down easily.”

James traced his tongue along his teeth, feeling them a little sharper than usual and pinpointing what the others lacked. None of them had the gall – or, maybe, lack of tact – to tease him with the playful, sarcastic banter he craved. “You know what I would get you?” Steve cocked an eyebrow. “Straight tequila. _Bitter_ but still makes me want to take my pants off.”

The music drowned out Steve’s laughter while the colored lights from above bathed him in blue and purple.

“Thankfully,” Steve said, sliding onto the barstool between them, “I do know you, which is why I got you this.”

The bartender set down what looked to be a chocolate martini, topped with nearly an entire can of whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, and a chocolate chip cookie. For Steve, she set down a damn Jack and Coke.

“I figured your preference toward sweet things hasn’t changed much.”

James shook his head, brushing his shoulder against Steve’s. “Well, why else do you think I like you?”

“Damn,” Steve said and shook his head. “You really weren’t lying about saying stupid shit, huh?”

“And I wasn’t lying about getting so close to me either. Seriously, people will talk.”

“I really don’t care, Bucky.”

“You really should, though, because people really hate me. And I don’t want you to be outed or for your coworkers to treat you differently. Does your mom even know you’re – not straight?”

Steve just smiled casually. “I work alone, but I do appreciate the concern. I’ve been out since college, but thank you for explaining biphobia to me. And, starting when we were thirteen, my mom made me prop my bedroom door open every time you visited, so I think she may have an idea. So, unless _you _don’t feel comfortable being seen out with me, I really don’t mind.”

“Okay,” James said after a moment. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Instead of dwelling on what may have been, again, too honest, Steve used the stirrer from his drink to swipe the whipped cream that melted over the side of James’ glass. “How’s this taste?”

James took a sip and almost coughed at the cloying sweetness that flooded his taste buds. He smiled anyway. “Do you remember when we found the cabinet where my mom kept her liqueurs that she used for her different cakes?”

“Oh, yeah. We downed probably half a bottle of Kahlua before switching to that caramel schnapps that immediately made us feel sick.”

“_Butterscotch_,” James corrected with a laugh, “which has to be worse.”

Steve shook his head, beaming while recalling the memory. “So it’s that bad?”

“Oh, no. _This _is excellent, but it’s definitely bringing back some flashbacks. Was that the first time we kissed?”

“No, we started kissing a while before that,” Steve said, almost too quickly. “That was the night before your date with the redhead cheerleader, and you insisted on needing ‘practice’ before seeing her.”

“That’s right.” James took another sip, remembering it fondly, and licked the rim of his glass while maintaining daring eye contact with Steve. “You turned out to be a much better kisser.”

Not at all impressed or considering that to be a compliment, Steve broke off a piece of the cookie for himself. “You plan on spending the rest of the night comparing me to all the other notches on your bedpost?”

“We might want to finish our drinks before having that particular conversation.”

Rather than approach that particular conversation when they finished their drinks, James dragged Steve onto the dance floor, finding that he moved a bit more fluidly with a little rum in his system. They ended up in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by other sweaty bodies who only cared about themselves or who they were with, paying them no mind. James wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck. Closer to the speakers, he practically had to press his lips against the shell of Steve’s ear to whisper, “Relax.”

Where James moved with practiced ease, Steve stood rigidly, looking as out of place as he claimed he would be. James guided his hands to the small of his back and continued to lean close. “Feel the music,” he said, personally feeling the bass vibrating in his chest. “Feel me and my body and just do whatever feels right.”

Pressing his face against James’ neck, Steve nodded and allowed him to take the lead. James started by moving his hips, slow and seductive, and Steve responded by pulling them closer together by his belt loops, kissing up his neck and along his jaw. Once he reached his lips, Steve kissed him exactly the way he remembered. James grinned, and Steve hummed against his mouth. “You taste like chocolate,” Steve said when they separated.

James pecked his lips once more. And again, greedily. “Now, you do too.”

Buzzed from the liquor and the lust, they laughed, and Steve appeared to gain more confidence, spinning James around so his back was flush against Steve’s front. Lips pressed against the back of James’ neck, the vibrations of Steve’s laughter reverberated down his spine, and James couldn’t help but gasp, eyes fluttering closed, as he swayed into him, riding the shockwaves through his body like a wave. James rested his head back against Steve’s shoulder and lifted his hands in the air before settling in Steve’s hair. They found each other’s mouths again, a bit more awkwardly in this new position and far more desperately, like it was their first and their last. Slipping his hands under James’ shirt, Steve set the pace, defining a new rhythm that James tried with tremendous effort to match. James felt like his body was on fire, and Steve was the fucking match.

When it became no longer subtle how this was affecting them both, James pulled him from the crowd, mouth wet and shirt partially unbuttoned. “Take me home,” he demanded.

Steve nodded. “Do we have to keep your bedroom door open?”

“Fuck no.”


	5. The Past and The Painting

_James woke in a panic Oh God, oh God, oh God. Steve – fucking _little Steve – _laid beside him, who lived down the road and joined him and his mom for Thanksgiving dinner. Classes started the following day, and he could already see the judgmental looks he’d receive from his peers in the hallway. They had always speculated that he was fooling around with Steve; now, they had proof. Why had he even spoken to him, taken a few shots, pulled him upstairs-_

_Fuck. He was finally popular with a ton of new friends who liked him and made him realize how stupid his childhood nickname sounded. Coach actually saw his potential after years of being a “team player,” and he was throwing it all away. Out of all the girls, any girl, at the party, he chose Steve fucking Rogers._

_Steve stirred when James fled the sheets, as if they burned his skin. “What’s wrong?”_

_“What’s wrong?” James echoed in a frantic, mocking tone. “What’s wrong? You! You’re what’s wrong. Everything about _this _was wrong.”_

_“What are you talking about?” Steve blinked slowly, presumably fighting off the same headache James was sporting._

_Pulling on his pants, James laughed – something bitter and spiteful. “I can’t believe I let you coerce me into doing this. We’ll be lucky if no one saw us. God, I feel – I feel disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself.”_

_“Excuse me?” Steve sat up, raising his voice. “What the fuck are you talking about? You were the one who asked me to be here, Bucky.”_

_“Don’t call me that. And don’t act like this is normal, like this wasn’t the biggest mistake of our lives.”_

_“What’s not normal? What we’ve been doing for years? In _your _bedroom?”_

_Looking under the dresser for his shirt, James shook his head. “Yeah, well, we never did this, and we’re never doing it again. Because I never want to see you again.”_

_Steve just stared, mouth agape and eyes wide with shock and pain, and James almost felt – pity. In all the years that he had known him, Steve had never turned away from a fight, but in that moment, he must have known that a fight would be pointless. “Okay.” Steve sniffed, and after wiping his eyes, he narrowed his gaze, looking the most intimidating that he had ever been. “I hope you’re happy, _James_.”_

“Bucky.” Steve shook his shoulder and repeated in a soft whisper, “Bucky.”

James’ eyes popped open to see Steve’s eyes peering back at him, full of concern. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so, so sorry,” he blurted out, finding it hard to catch his breath. His chest tightened, seizing, feeling weighed down, and he gasped for short, shallow breaths.

“Hey.” Steve brought his hand up to brush his thumb against James’ cheek. “_Breathe_, Bucky.”

The breath he forced sounded shaky at best, rattling in his lungs, reminiscent of the colds Steve would catch in the winter when they were young. Somewhat more relaxed, James tried again. “I’m sorry.”

Again, Steve ignored his apology. “Deep breaths, Buck,” he said calmly, clasping their hands together in front of his chest. He closed his eyes, breaths intertwining, as James tried to do just that.

Once he stopped hearing his heartbeat pounding in his ears, James sighed. “Do we have an appointment today?”

Steve nodded, head against his pillow. “You don’t need to be there if you don’t feel like it. I’m pretty sure I could draw you in my sleep.” He yawned and allowed his eyes to fall shut again. James knew that he was referring to the practice drawings that filled his notebook, but thinking back to the drawing that sat in the drawer of his bedside table, he still wondered if this was Steve’s take on saying something stupid – a sleepy confession. “If anyone asks, I’ll tell them you felt sick.”

That wasn’t too far from the truth, but James shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Steve.”

“Sure. Go back to sleep.”

For a few minutes, James just watched the way Steve’s eyelashes curled against his cheeks, cherishing the sound of his gentle breaths. Listening and breathing, he closed his eyes and followed Steve’s lead.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After what turned out to be their final painting session, James helped Steve fit the portrait into the frame as soon as he finished adding on the little details, signing his signature, and brushing on some kind of glaze. Kneeling beside James as he began to assemble the pieces of the frame on the floor, Steve eyed him skeptically. “I was an engineer for Tony Stark for six years. I think I know how to put a fucking picture frame together,” James said under his breath, forcing two pieces together that should have clicked already.

“Oh, I don’t doubt your abilities in the slightest.” Steve twisted one of the pieces, and it popped in immediately. James flipped him off. “It’s just a little big, don’t you think?”

James mirrored his smug grin. “So, _now_, you think size will be an issue.”

Steve playfully hit him on the arm and helped fit together the rest of the pieces.

Together, they hoisted the painting onto the hooks on the wall – a job that was probably designated for someone else. Taking a few steps back, Steve smoothly slipped his arm around James’ waist, as he looked up at the portrait in awe.

It was as if he was looking at a photograph. Everything was just so perfect and maybe even a little too perfect. A golden glow surrounded all of them, which the tourists would interpret as something ethereal, but they would always remember it as the hot, hot lights. Naturally, his eyes gravitated to himself first. He could feel the itch of the material of his clothing and the hardness of the chair solely by the brushstrokes in which they were painted. It was funny to see himself permanently fixed in the position that he had such a difficult time holding in the moment, like an inside joke he shared with the version of himself in the painting – the corners of his lips curled up, as if always on the verge of laughter.

“Amazing,” James said. He traced his eyes along the crystal-clear lines and fine details. The expressions on their faces were perfect. The King appeared stern and stoic but almost trying too hard, and his mother exuded pure, unabashed joy at his side. A smile on red lips masked the pain Margaret felt from her contorted ribcage. The first thing James noticed about his own expression was his eyes. So much depth appeared hidden behind the grayish blue paint – a lifetime of troubles and torment. For the first time, James understood what Steve meant when he said that he had sad eyes, and he cleared his throat. “It’s incredible.”

“It’s alright,” Steve said with a humble shrug.

James shook his head. “It’s _beautiful_.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re terrible,” James laughed and shoved him to the side with his hip.

“Spectacular!” They turned to see the King walking into the room, marveling at the painting, with James’ mother holding onto his arm and Margaret on his other side. Extending his arm, he said, “Truly impeccable work, Steven.”

Steve ducked his head as he shook the King’s hand in a firm handshake that James remembered from their first session. James’ mother pulled Steve in for a hug, her head reaching his chest. “Great job, dear. Thank you.”

He looked to Margaret, who said a simple but genuine, “Thanks, Steve.” She hesitated before initiating a hug, and James smiled, realizing that this was the first time he had seen them interact since their dinner.

When he finished his receiving line, Steve returned to James’ side, their shoulders brushing together. “It was my pleasure,” he said. “You were all fantastic to work with, and I really thank you for giving me the opportunity to do this.”

Soaking in the flattery, the King beamed back at him. “Oh, please. The pleasure was all ours.”

“Will you join us for dinner?” James’ mother suggested, and Margaret and James widened their eyes at each other. “It’s the least we can do to repay you.”

“It’d be an honor, but if it’s alright with you, I think I’ll stop by my hotel room to pick up something more – appropriate to wear.” He looked down at the stains that covered his jeans and t-shirt.

“Not a problem,” James’ mother replied. “We’ll see you tonight.”

As they turned to leave the room, James realized that as much as he wanted to stay with Steve, he probably needed to go with his family. “See you tonight,” he repeated and ran his fingers down Steve’s arm as they walked away.

Steve shook his head with his hands in his pockets – the half-smile at play on his lips conveying disbelief.

His smile carried all the way to dinner, which he arrived to early and in a casual suit jacket, and aimed at James when he walked into the dining room. In the middle of telling a story, Steve fit in perfectly at the table, sitting across from Margaret with her father at the head and James’ mother at the opposite end. He rose from his chair to pull out James’ chair beside him, and James froze. _What was he doing? _One dinner with the royal family, and he was already acting like Prince Charming. James rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be pushed in, stopping when Steve, apparently feeling bold, leaned down to whisper in his ear for only him to hear, “You look gorgeous.”

Steve returned to his chair and picked up where he left off in his story, while James blamed his damn blush on the gulp of wine he took. In the same way that he looked at the painting, James watched him in astonishment, as Steve captivated his family with natural charm that he never would have imagined when they first met – at the beginning of the week and twenty years earlier on a playground. Steve told a joke, and the King’s laughter boomed, echoing off the walls.

_Amazing_.

The servers had only brought out one of the appetizers, so James knew that there were still plenty of courses left, plenty of time for this dinner to go so terribly, horrifically wrong.

And, yet, Steve whole-heartedly nailed his role. A total natural. The King told the same stories he always used to entertain his guests, and Steve listened attentively. As if reading from a script, he knew all the responses, asking all the right follow-up questions and giving all the right responses. He knew how to schmooze the King, share pleasantries with James’ mother, and talk politics with Margaret. As much as he wished he could enjoy the conversation as the rest of his family did, James couldn’t help but feel inadequate. _Steve _should have been the one who was becoming the Prince. He certainly deserved it far more than James did and probably would have even used the fame and prestige for good.

As James grew more and more distant from the conversation, Steve brought him back down to the table, resting his hand on his thigh, while the King snapped him back into reality. “Winifred was telling me that you used to be old pals.”

“Yeah,” Steve said and gave him an innocuous side-glance, “we’ve always been close.”

“Thick as thieves,” James’ mother agreed.

Margaret smirked. “Dare I say – like brothers?”

James glared at her, and Steve just smiled. “We drifted apart around high school. Bucky was too cool for school, and I was shy. We took very different paths in life, went to different schools, different majors, and then, he ended up here. Somehow, so did I. It’s been wonderful being able to reconnect.”

Expecting someone to reply and receiving silence, James wondered if that last line was too on the nose. He looked up to see Margaret and the King sharing confused eye-contact. Finally, after unbearable silence, Margaret could no longer hold in her laughter. “_Bucky?_”

James blushed again, and this time, found his glass empty when he reached for it. Taking advantage of the ideal setup, Steve launched into the explanation behind the nickname – a story of a shared swing set and a kid helping another kid with a skinned knee and presidential middle names. While Steve spoke, James covered Steve’s hand with his own, failing to realize that it was a completely subconscious action. “I don’t know,” Steve said with a shrug and took a sip of the last remaining drops of his own wine. “‘James’ always sounded so stuck-up and stuffy – no offense, of course, to you, Winifred. ‘Prince James,’ though? That has a nice ring to it. Like it was always meant to be.”

James smiled; obviously, Steve knew how to charm him too.

With wine glasses refilled and courses exchanged, the conversation continued, and with Steve’s encouragement, James became an active participant.

It was certainly the nicest dinner James had had in the palace, and at the end of it, when everyone was too full from cake to finish the fruit sculpture, the King looked over to Steve. “Well, it goes without saying that you’re invited to the wedding, and you’re more than welcome to bring whomever you’d like.”

James rose his eyebrows, and Margaret grinned at him. “Yes, Steve, please bring a date."

Clearly flattered, himself, Steve nodded. “Thank you very much for the invitation.”

At the King’s next suggestion, James rose his eyebrows even higher. Margaret rolled her eyes and shook her head. Steve tried not to choke on his vintage merlot, and James’ mother – _did she just wink at them?_

The King looked oblivious as always. “What? I think it’d be nice if James gave our guest a tour.”

The _tour _consisted of the same hallway that led to James’ bedroom that they had become well-acquainted with already. At this point, though, Steve took James’ hand to lead the way, needing no directions. Steve laughed, and James joined him. “He _has _to know,” Steve said.

“_He has to!_” James nodded, cackling. He looked down the corridor to see the rows and rows and rows of doors that they still needed to pass. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck. “Carry me?”

Surprisingly, Steve agreed, lifting him bridal style, and only stumbled when he pushed open James’ door with his foot and hit a suitcase with his first step. “You finally moving in?” James asked.

Steve didn’t reply, only crossing the room to set James down on his dresser and kissing him with a ferocious sense of urgency. Pulling away, Steve shrugged off his jacket, and James crossed his legs and stretched out his arms, as he leaned back against his vanity mirror to admire the view. “Damn, Stevie.”

With his own shirt tossed aside, Steve lifted James’ above his head and set his lips to James’ neck. James tangled his hands in Steve’s hair and hummed. “I hope you understand how weird that was. Do you know how many people I’ve slept with that have also had dinner with my family? _Zero_.”

“Trust me,” Steve said after pressing a light kiss to the spot he had just bitten, “I know.”

“You really want to be _all_ of my firsts, huh?”

Steve shook his head, seeming to be thinking about something entirely different. “You’re going to be a prince in a week, Bucky.”

“You could too if you play your cards right.”

Steve paused, brow furrowing. “I really hope you’re referring to the somewhat terrifying notion of your stepfather _adopting me_ and you’re not proposing to me, which might actually be even more terrifying.”

“I definitely do not want you to be stepbrother, and I’m definitely not proposing to you.” James scoffed. “_I’m _the one who needs proposing to, thanks.”

“What happened to not wanting to get married?”

“I don’t give a shit about getting married. I just want an entire day dedicated to me.”

Steve cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I want my engagement ring to be gaudy but respectable.”

“Great. I’ll make a note of it in my journal.”

While Steve rolled his eyes, James pulled him in for another kiss, wrapping his legs around his waist. He sprawled out further on top of the dresser, head falling back against the glass while the antique wood creaked, and Steve reached for his hand. Instead of grabbing his hand, Steve knocked over a glass bottle. It shattered as soon as it hit the floor and filled the air with the overpowering aroma of James’ cologne. “Shit, sorry,” Steve said, sounding winded.

James shrugged. “I’ll buy more.”

Taking his face between his hands, James kissed away his blush – or, perhaps, deepened it.

Abruptly, Steve pulled back. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” he said with such sincerity that his voice nearly broke, unable to carry the words.

James blinked, taken aback. Still holding Steve’s face, he stared into the abyss of his clear blue eyes, noticing something like uncertainty, something like fear. Like James’ eyes in the painting – sad eyes. “It’s okay.”

Brushing everything aside, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Steve lifted James into his arms again and laid him on the bed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Steve shifted beside him. Specifically, Steve pulled his arm out from behind James’ head, making him fall face first into his pillow. James made a pathetic noise of discontent but fell back asleep.

After the second time he moved, James squinted at his phone screen for the time. He saw either 2:00 or 3:00 AM through blurred numbers. Late but not necessarily late for him – way too early to be in bed. _Damn_; Steve had really interfered with his nonexistent schedule.

James rolled over, feeling the mattress on his side surprisingly vacant, and squinted in the dark to make out Steve’s form where he sat at the edge of the bed, pulling on his pants. “Where are you going?”

Steve cleared his throat, answering simply, “The airport.”

Half-awake, James couldn’t process that response. “Why?"

“To catch a flight.”

“To go where?”

Sighing, Steve rose from the bed. “To go _home_, Bucky.” His tone lacked the teasing, biting edge that James had grown to expect from him, coming out as desperate but terse, as if he wanted his conversation to be over as soon as possible.

Suddenly feeling much more awake, James flipped himself onto his back and sat up. “Why are you going home?”

“I had a job to do. I finished the job. So now I’m going home.”

“You’re not staying for the wedding?” Giving no response, Steve put on a shirt. “They’ll be so disappointed you’re not there. I’m pretty sure they like you more than they like me right now.”

“Give them my sincerest apologies.”

“And what about me?”

“What _about _you?” Steve almost tried to snap at him, but it fell flat.

“I-” James hadn’t exactly thought this far ahead, hadn’t exactly realized he needed to. “I liked having you here. I liked talking to you and getting to know you – again. I like – whatever this was. But more than that. I like-” His eyes widened in shock, unable to bring himself to finish that sentence. Instead, James asked, “Why can’t you stay?”

“I can’t, Bucky. I have to go.”

James couldn’t believe him: he _wouldn’t _believe him until he saw his face. He turned on the lamp beside his bed, and Steve flinched away from the light from where he squatted over his suitcase to zip it closed. “Why?” James demanded.

“I have another job."

“How much are they paying you? I’ll double it, triple it, I don’t care. Whatever it takes-”

“I have a life.”

“Yeah?” James scoffed. “Tell me about it. I’m sure you can do everything you do here.”

“I have a wife.”

Steve stood up, throwing up his hands in frustration, and James’ mouth gaped open. “_What?_” James whispered, convinced his ears had deceived him, needing to hear it again.

“I did,” Steve sighed. “I told her we, uh, had to end things the day I knew I was going to – cheat on her with you.”

“No.” James blinked and shook his head. “No, I know you, Steve-”

“No, you don’t. You remember who I used to be, just like how I only see you how I remember you from when we were only teenagers.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. We know each other, and we both know what this was,” James said, gesturing wildly to the space between them.

“Oh, please tell me what _this _was. Listen, I’ll tell you what _this _was.” He barked out a laugh – something bitter and acidic that burned to hear and sounded nothing like Steve. “Meaningless sex, Buck. You should try it sometime.”

The way he parroted James’ words made it perfectly clear what – or _who _– else he intended on calling meaningless.

Clearing his throat, James nodded; he understood.

Steve opened the door, but before he walked through it, he turned back around one last time. “Goodbye, Bucky.”

James said nothing in response, only watching him walk away and unable to believe what he was seeing.


	6. Solo Drinking Games and Breakfast

For the rest of the night, he swayed in and out of consciousness, stuck in a perpetual nightmare that he refused to accept as reality. He laid back and stared at the door. Any minute, Steve would be walking back into the room. Any minute. The pretty ones always came back. Except: James knew that Steve wasn’t like the rest of them. There was a possibility that he was never coming back. 

James didn’t accept that fact until the first rays of sunlight streamed through his window and laid across the pillow where Steve’s head should have been, casting shadows under his eyelashes. Reaching out, he felt the cold, empty space beside him.

_Damn._

He was gone.

And he was married. Out of everything, that was almost the hardest to believe. James knew that he didn’t have a ring, having learned his hands quite well, and tried to recall whether or not he had a tan line. But Steve didn’t tan. He just burned, and even though he winced every time he moved, he refused to accept when he had sunburn, admitting defeat only when James rubbed Aloe Vera onto his shoulders.

Pulling a bottle of a trustworthy brand of vodka from under his bed, James started to play a drinking game with himself. Every time he recalled a memory about Steve, he took a drink.

He finished the bottle by sundown. Carelessly throwing the bottle near his dresser, he added the broken glass to the pile that was already there. His room still smelled overwhelmingly of his cologne, and he hated the smell of it. He hadn’t moved from his bed the entire day, staring vacantly at the ceiling until the patterns began to swirl before his eyes in the same way his brain was swirling from the booze.

Feeling nauseous, he tossed his legs over the side of his bed and walked over to his coffee table. From the candy dish, he picked out a pill for each color of the rainbow, just for fun, and added an extra tablet that had a yellow frown on it, because it was apt. He swallowed them with a bottle of beer that was left open and half-drunk without any idea of how long it had been there, finding it disgustingly flat and warm.

He closed his eyes as he waited for the pills to in. He didn’t have a plan for what he wanted them to do – just hoping for a general sense of taking the pain away and relieving the tightness in his chest. When they didn’t do anything, only making him shiver more in the early May cold snap, he looked around his room for kindling. The velvet outfit hung on one of the first hangers in his closet, and he pulled a few items from his bedside table.

Sitting, legs crossed on the floor in front of the fireplace, he didn’t flinch when a shard of glass pierced his bare thigh and struck a match. The wood began to crackle, sounding excruciatingly loud to his ears, as he watched the flames flicker in his glazed eyes. He ran his hand along the sleeves of the outfit, down the buttons that he hadn’t bothered to button, tangling in the lace that Steve had torn, before realizing he didn’t feel a thing. So, he tossed it into the fire. The material – the hundreds of years old heirloom – immediately became engulfed in flame. The purple color grew darker and darker until turning black and crumbling as ash. With lazy amusement, he added the pants next and watched them do the same.

He knew that people would be furious that he destroyed clothing that belonged to another generation of the royal family. But what were they going to do? Kick him out of the family? Take away his title? And all over a shitty outfit? No, they would do what they always did, throwing a fit but getting over it, and James would do what he always did, which was whatever he wanted.

When he could no longer tell the difference between charred wood and fabric, he turned his attention to the drawing of himself. His dried blood still stained the upper corner of the paper, and he traced the angles of himself with his finger, struggling to follow a straight line. He looked perfectly carefree, lost in a daydream, eighteen-years-old. Now, he knew that he was looking up at Steve, not vaguely in the distance, with his damn sad eyes. The lighthearted smile on his lips and sheer agony in his eyes was a stark juxtaposition that felt even more painful in his current position.

He thought of Steve choosing to draw this exact moment. It was from the night of the party, the night when everything changed, right before James rolled over and fell asleep and woke in a panic. It was the last moment of them being exactly how they had always been. It was Steve’s _Bucky_ looking up at him like he meant the world to him, absolutely everything, the best thing in his life, and knowing that in the morning he was going to break his heart. It was Steve’s last happy memory of him, and now, he understood.

James placed the drawing into the fire and watched its edges immediately curl, smoke rising up the chimney. For a split second, he considered reaching into the flames, burning himself, to rescue it – a feeling he definitely had not felt when he burned the clothing. He decided against it. It was too late. _It was too late_. He’d lost Steve – again – and there was nothing he could do to save it.

The paper burned quickly, and feeling no better, James returned to his bed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He didn’t sleep, instead blacking out, and waking to look at his phone. It was 2:00 or 3:00 AM. He stood up, moving toward his closet, deciding it was time to go out. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life in the daze that he had wasted his day suffocating in; he wasn’t going to allow a goddamn artist to ruin his life.

Before leaving, he grabbed a couple more pills, not concerning himself with their colors.

The club was packed, and he didn’t care. He didn’t even climb the steps to his loft and greet his friends who were indulging in his free drinks. Heading straight to the dance floor, he found the first blonde who was taller than him and ran his fingers down his back. That’s all it took to get his attention, and seeing James was all it took to follow him home.

James pushed him onto his bed and straddled his hips, pulling his face up for a kiss. Clearly star-struck, the guy didn’t know how to respond, blinking up at him with brown eyes. “Wow,” he said, and his voice was so incredibly wrong. “You’re incredible, James.”

Breaking their kiss, James shook his head. “Call me Bucky.”

James never asked for his name, calling the stranger Steve for the rest of the night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the morning, he woke to see the man putting on his clothes, painfully reminiscent of the day before. He looked back, almost shocked, to see him awake. “Thank you,” he said, as he pulled on his shirt. “That was – nice.” And it was. It was more than nice; it was great, probably excellent, but it wasn’t what either of them wanted. “You should probably tell Steve that you’re in love with him, though.”

With that, the man walked out of the room, knowing that they would never see each other again.

Bucky stared at the ceiling.

He felt no better than he did when Steve left, when he attempted to burn the memories, when he offered his body to a stranger who could never replace him, who could never fill the void in his chest. He knew that no amount of drugs or alcohol could make him feel better and that there was nothing left to do.

Sighing, he found himself on his balcony, arms resting on the railing that overlooked another angle of the gardens. There was a table below him, just like the table where Margaret and Steve shared a dinner, making him wish that he had a chance to have dinner with Steve alone. A real chance to talk and explain himself and share old memories like they started to at the bar.

The sound of knuckles gently rapping at the open door to the balcony shook him from the idea. Margaret stood in the door with a bittersweet half-smile on her face. “I’ve got a ticket to a few hours of happier thoughts with your name on it.” She handed him a pristinely-rolled joint that had _Bucky _written on it in her elegant cursive.

Bucky tried to laugh, the noise from his throat coming out as a wispy huff, and handed it back to her. “Smoking makes me paranoid.”

“You’re always paranoid,” she said, flicking a lighter and lighting it between her red, manicured nails. “Smoking makes you vocal.”

Bucky looked around at the birds chirping in the trees while she took a drag. “What time is it?”

She laughed and passed it to him. “Seven in the morning. What? Shouldn’t you be familiar with the concept of a wake-and-bake?”

Looking down at the joint, he sighed.

“Come on,” she said. “Help me finish this, and we’ll go get breakfast.”

The “quaint, little breakfast place” that Margaret knew turned out to be only a few blocks away. They walked together with Margaret holding onto his arm with one hand and greeting the passersby with the other. Both of them hid their bloodshot eyes behind obnoxiously large pairs of designer sunglasses. A pretty waitress, with pretty brunette curls and a fading accent that reminded him of home, seated them at a table on the patio that was relatively blocked off from the press. The table appeared reserved for them, as if she had already planned on them coming here. “My mom and I used to eat here a lot. Usually, we weren’t high, though – usually.” This time, Bucky’s laughter actually sounded, and Margaret smiled. “There’s a whole shrine dedicated to her inside. If you ask me, I think it’s kind of weird.”

There was no shrine dedicated to Bucky’s father. Not that he was forgotten or unloved, but he wasn’t a public figure like Margaret’s mother and Bucky hadn’t visited his grave in years. Throughout his life, Bucky and his father simply never saw eye-to-eye, arguing on nearly every topic. His father wished that he was more like himself at that age – that he practiced baseball more than he read books, that he did something more productive than daydreaming about fantasy worlds, that he stopped hanging out with that neighbor boy. So, when he died when Bucky was sixteen, he couldn’t help but blame him for everything that happened next. At least being forced to get a job and watching his mother work a second shift inspired him to pursue college with a great area of study to get a great job. A great job that he never even used anymore. Now, what was he going to do? Wallow in riches and self-pity?

When the waitress arrived with their drinks, Bucky took a healthy sip of his mimosa, knowing that a little champagne wouldn’t answer his questions or qualm his fears, but it tasted nice and distracted him for a second. Like the weed, it didn’t erase the memories or the pain, but it did lift the weight off his heart for a moment, his head feeling lighter. For Margaret, the bubbly did nothing more than make her naturally endearing personality extra bubbly, and Bucky smiled at how she looked up at their waitress.

“You think the waitress is cute,” he pointed out after she left with their orders, a pen tucked behind her ear. Before she could argue, he added simply, “She thinks you’re cute too.”

Margaret just smiled back – something all-knowing in her red lips. “Yeah?”

He nodded, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. “Well, she wasn’t exactly looking at me.”

“Probably because you look about ready to burst into tears at any moment,” she said candidly but without malice.

Ready to roll his eyes, he sighed and didn’t disagree, knowing that they would need to address this elephant at some point. “He’s gone.” Margaret gave him the time to find the right words to express how he felt. “I didn’t realize him leaving would affect me so much.”

“Neither did I.”

“I mean, it’s not like I expected him to stay forever, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon. I thought he’d at least stay for the wedding.”

If he was being honest with himself, he would have acknowledged how long he contemplated how Margaret’s father convinced his mother to stay after the first time they met. It was difficult not to draw comparisons to that day with Margaret sitting across from him at breakfast. He could still remember the day of the King’s arrival in New York. He could still hear the laughter in his mother’s voice every time she tended to his table – a sweet and honest thing he hadn’t heard since his father’s death. Like the rest of the crowd that had gathered, he stood behind the rope and the bodyguards that separated them from the dining room and watched the rest unfold over the tops of people’s shoulders. The King appeared absolutely smitten with his eyes wide in delight, following the waitress’ movements and waiting earnestly for another chance to speak with her – to _flirt _with her. And Bucky’s mother flirted right back. Bucky caught the eye of the daughter – the _princess_ – and she appeared to telegraph “S.O.S.” with her eyelashes.

But, regardless of what their children thought, all it took was one meeting. One meeting convinced his mother to drop everything and move to a different country, just for the chance to get to know a man who happened to eat at her restaurant.

For Bucky, it took far more convincing. “Hell no,” he had told his mother when she informed him of her decision to quit her job and move to London. The woman who taught him the importance of supporting himself was willing to give up everything she had worked for just because some rich guy said he would “take care of her.” But she was one-hundred percent certain about this. Dumbfounded, he helped pack her apartment – his childhood home – into boxes and suitcases, hugged her goodbye at the airport, and returned, alone, to his regular life.

He grew more and more frustrated with the job he had worked so hard to obtain and spent his evenings researching the King in an attempt to see what his mother saw. While James ate cold, leftover pizza over his kitchen sink, he could only imagine his mother eating lobster or steak or both, being swept off her feet in a fairytale. He wondered what they were talking about. Aside from the obvious, did they have _anything_ else in common? His mother worked multiple minimum-wage jobs at a time to put food on the table. Did being a “king” even qualify as a job? They lived in a studio apartment and only had separate bedrooms when Bucky was in high school. A quick Google search informed him that the King’s home consisted of 775 rooms – 775 times the size of the home he grew up in. In addition to picking up as many hours as he could at his mother’s second-shift, Bucky worked his ass off in school, earning a full scholarship to his dream university, where he continued to work his ass off until he received his diploma and honors that he so rightfully deserved. Had the King worked for anything in his life?

He voiced all of these complaints to his girlfriend at the time, running his hand through her hair, while she laid on his chest. “I don’t get it,” she said. “You could be a prince. Quit your job, never work another day in your life, getting bossed around by some entitled asshole, and still get everything you want. Do whatever makes you happy. That sounds like a pretty good deal to me, James. Do you realize how many people would kill for that type of opportunity?”

So, they agreed that their relationship had long-since fizzled out, and he hopped on the next plane to England, leaving Tony Stark scrounging for a new prodigy engineer. The rest was being edited into the history textbooks in preparation for the upcoming wedding.

It, ultimately, didn’t take much to convince Bucky and his mother to stay, but he knew Steve wouldn’t go as easy. Because even after one meeting, it was obvious what the King and his mother had that he and Steve lacked. Something like fate. Or soulmates.

“True love,” he whispered aloud, apropos of nothing, and even behind the sunglasses, he could see the clear look of concern that Margaret gave him.

She sighed. “Did you really think you could go your whole life without meeting the love of your life?”

He cleared his throat, and even behind his own sunglasses, he couldn’t meet her gaze. “I thought I could go my whole life pretending I hadn’t already met him.” When she didn’t respond, he cracked a smile to lighten the mood. “Christ, now I know how Barton feels. Pining after someone who will never feel the same.”

Hand on the stem of her glass, she paused. “You mean Natasha? James, they’re _married_.”

“To their work?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re oblivious to everything.”

He threw himself back against his chair. “Is _everyone _fucking married?”

“What?”

_Oh. _“Steve didn’t tell you?”

The way that her mouth opened and closed in confusion and disbelief answered his question enough, but she added anyway, “No. He did not.”

When their food arrived, they ate in silence. Margaret appeared to be processing what he had just told her, and Bucky tried to conceive a natural way to change the topic. Sitting across from him now, Margaret, herself, reminded him of another memory that made him laugh. “Remember when my mom and I first moved in and the press thought _you and I _were the couple?”

She nodded as she cackled. “Could you _imagine_? Quite a fiery relationship we would’ve had.”

Bucky smirked, recalling the early stages of their relationship when it hadn’t exactly been a loving dynamic. She was still the highly-respected saint, and he was new and non-traditional and diving into a life of vices. Almost as soon as he moved into the palace, he was swept away into a world of VIP galas, front-row tickets, red carpets and runways – along with everything that came with the lifestyle: the drug habits, drinking, and forgotten sexual escapades with strangers and B-list celebrities.

One morning, when he had a hangover and someone stunning in his bed, she barged into his room, throwing up her hands in disgust. “Who do you think you are?” she demanded and dragged him out of bed. “How dare you. How _dare _you think that this is more important than the event that I spent months planning! There were fatally-ill children who wanted to meet the future prince, and you effectively told them that they don’t matter by skipping it. How _on earth _do you justify that?”

“Let me think,” he said with a bitter scoff. “Spend the morning having a good time in bed or hang out with a bunch of sick kids sneezing and coughing on me?”

She slapped him. With enough force, the blow turned his head, and the sound echoed throughout the room. The red handprint on his cheek stung ferociously and remained for what felt like weeks.

From then on, he attended the charity events, beginning the slow process of gaining her respect, and she never hit him again.

Now, looking back on the event was simply funny, as Bucky felt a creeping tingle in his cheek while he laughed. “You told me that I would never be your brother.”

She rested her hand gentle over his from across the table. “Well, I’m glad I changed my mind.”

After they finished their meals and poured out the rest of the mimosa pitcher, she reached for his hand again, lowering her voice to the caring, nurturing tone she used at the charity events. “Are you going to be alright?”

He nodded and actually believed himself. “Yeah. I will.”


	7. The Wedding

Bucky looked at his reflection in the mirror, straightening his tie. It wasn’t even his wedding, and yet, he felt so damn nervous. He knew that there were multiple people whose jobs it were to organize and execute the fine details of the service and reception, so he wasn’t nervous about that. He worried that, somehow, he would make a fool of himself and make the day all about him – another tabloid headline. Avoiding any of his usual substance abuse for the past few days, the bags under his eyes lightened and were hid completely by the makeup artist. He wore an immaculately-tailored tuxedo, got a haircut and clean shave, and remembered his skincare routine, so at the very least, he looked great, even if he had no one to impress.

With Margaret by his side in an elegant maroon gown, they walked down the aisle, feeling as powerful as they appeared on the live broadcasts, and separated at the altar with Margaret going to her father’s side and Bucky going to his mother’s.

His worries evaporated the instant she began walking down the aisle, and everyone in the church took a collective gasp. With a floor-length veil and golden sunlight streaming over her from the stained-glass windows, she looked angelic. Happier than ever, and no one deserved it more than her.

The service, as non-traditional as it was in nature, still held true to tradition in many regards. Their vows had been written for them years before they had even been born, intended for all the royal couples, and the rings they exchanged had been locked away in a vault that held the other jewelry and artifacts from the previous Royal Families. Despite none of the immediate family holding devout spiritual beliefs, the venue of the old church and its high ceilings, soaring music from the choir and organ, and passionate minister certainly added a magical spark to the air. For a few moments, the appeal of tradition began to make sense to Bucky.

After the kiss and the cheering; after countless pictures were taken outside on the steps; after he had been introduced to all of his new uncles and aunts and cousins; after the cake had been cut and he had danced with as many people as he possible could have, he excused himself from the reception to stand on the balcony. The glass doors slightly muffled the noise of the party, and having held a smile on his face for the entire day, he allowed it to crumble. Folding his hands on the railing, he looked up at the deep, dark blue sky and stars, making a wish on the crescent moon.

He thought about the last time he truly admired the night sky. They were in their early teens and escaping the city to go _somewhere _else, away from the crowds and the noise, at least for a night. Laying side by side with their backs pressed against the cool grass, Steve pointed out constellations, while Bucky squinted at the sky, attempting to see any sort of pattern to the twinkling pinpricks of light. He could have been making it all up entirely, but he still would have listened. For a while, he didn’t look at the sky at all.

On the balcony, he tried to remember the names that he had heard probably fifteen years prior-

“Your highness.”

He would have recognized the voice anywhere, at any time, at any place, but in the moment, he couldn’t believe it. Turning perhaps too quickly on his heel, he swiped under his eyes, brushing away the tears that had formed. “_Steve?_” he asked, breathlessly, even though he knew exactly who was standing at a distance from him, against the doors.

Steve nodded with his hands in his pockets. He wore a suit that looked so crisp and pressed that he must have bought it the same day, almost as an afterthought or a last-minute decision. With the lights from the chandeliers inside illuminating him with a backlit golden glow, he looked like a miracle come to life.

Still processing what he was seeing, making a picture out of a jumble of stars, Bucky blinked, trying to put him into focus, and every time he closed his eyes, he feared that he would disappear. “You’re here?”

Steve only stepped closer, perfectly clear and perfectly there. “I’m here.” Shaking his head, Bucky willed away fresh tears but felt them fall anyway, and Steve reached out to comfort him but hesitated, pulling his hand back. He cracked an uneasy smile. “I was commissioned to do more paintings. Can’t imagine you had anything to do with that.”

Bucky let out a quiet, broken laugh. “If I had any idea that you’d be coming back, I wouldn’t be crying by myself on this goddamn balcony.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I shouldn’t have left like that-”

“No. You had every right to call me out. I hurt you before, and all I did was hurt you again.”

“I shouldn’t have blamed you for the things you did when you were eighteen. The grudges I’ve been holding for a decade.”

“You _should _be blaming me for that. I was stupid and scared and didn’t want to admit how much you meant to me. I didn’t _understand _how much you meant to me, and I’m still not entirely sure I do.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We both made mistakes, Bucky. We could spend the rest of the night apologizing to each other, and even then, there’s nothing we could say that could fix the past.”

Sniffling, Bucky nodded, preparing himself for another goodbye.

“But,” Steve said slowly, as if double-checking each word before deciding to say them, allowing them to pour from his heart, “that doesn’t mean anything for the future. I missed you so much, Bucky. I missed having you in my life and falling asleep with you in my arms. I missed listening to your voice even when you were saying the stupidest or dirtiest things I’ve ever heard in my life. I missed _you_. And being here with you was terrifying, because it was exactly how I remember being with you. I felt myself falling for you all over again, and it scared me. I didn’t want to open myself up to you again just to feel crushed when you didn’t feel the same.

“So, I ended it as fast as I could before I grew more attached and said whatever – _anything – _I could to get myself out of there, because God knows I wanted to stay. I spent the past week living in hell, trying to cope with the guilt of abandoning you like that. When I got the call to come back, I wanted to say no. My friends all told me to say no, that leaving you was the best decision I ever made, but it felt like the complete opposite to me. I had to come back. I dreaded having this conversation with you, but – here I am.”

Bucky listened, the same way he listened to him talk about constellations. “What are you trying to say, Steve?”

“We could start over. Wipe the slate clean, forget the past, and start from the beginning. What do you think?” 

He paused, thinking it all over, before admitting, “I don’t know if I can do that. You’re always going to be little Stevie who lived down the road. Who scraped his knees every other day and got in fights with kids twice his size, forcing _me_ to fight for him when he inevitably got his ass kicked. You’re always going to be my best friend, and there’s nothing that will ever change that. We can try our best to forget the past, but just have to accept it all – the good and the bad – if we really to try again. There’s no guarantee that it’ll work out this time, you know,” he said bluntly, but the corners of his lips quirked upward, “but third time’s the charm, right?”

The relief visibly washed over his face – his blush apparent even in the dark. “I’m ready if you are.”

Bucky nodded and allowed himself to be enveloped in Steve’s embrace. They held onto each other tightly, as if afraid that someone would attempt to separate them. Resting his head against Steve’s shoulder, Bucky ran his hands up and down his back, savoring the warmth through the chilled breeze in the air. Steve sighed, and Bucky could still hear his heart pounding quickly in his chest, guilt still hanging heavily in his own. “I slept with someone,” he said, holding onto Steve and praying that he wouldn’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” Steve said and slipped his fingers gently, reassuringly, into Bucky’s hair. “We were never exclusive.”

Immediately, in a firm voice that exuded nothing but pure honesty, Bucky replied, “I want to be.”

Steve shifted in his grasp, pulling back only so Bucky could see his smile. “Me too.”

With one admission left, Bucky took a deep breath while the words took shape in his mouth. “I love you.”

Steve’s smile wavered, and Bucky winced. “I hope you can understand why I can’t say it back – just yet.”

“I do,” Bucky said, nodding eagerly, reassured by the possibility alone that Steve would maybe, one day, say it back. “I understand, and I’ll give you all the time in the world. However long you need. Even if you never do. You know I’m with you-”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve interrupted and grabbed his lapels, finally pulling him in for a kiss.

In front of the glass doors, all of the guests could see, and neither of them cared.

When they separated to catch their breaths, Bucky laid his head on Steve’s chest and smirked. “I take it you’re not married.”

“No. God, no. I can’t believe I said that.” Bucky _felt _Steve’s laughter course through his body. “You’re not the only one with commitment issues, you know.”

Bucky laughed as well but knew that he referenced a fair point. “Is it really healthy to base our relationship off of lies and unreal, idealized expectations of each other?”

“Only one way to find out,” Steve said with a casual shrug. “I guess I should probably tell you that I brought a date to the wedding.”

Bucky felt his heart stop but directed his eyes to where Steve nodded toward the head table. A woman greeted his mother and now stepfather, wearing a gray dress that complimented her son’s suit, and Bucky gasped. It had been ten years since he’d seen Sarah Rogers, and she still looked as beautiful and graceful as ever.

Smiling down at him, Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky’s waist. “She’s really looking forward to meeting the Prince.”


	8. Epilogue

“This is way too much, Bucky.”

Sinking his toes into the hot, white sand, Bucky sighed, feeling all the stress of recent days be blown away on the sea-salt air. “We’ve been together for two years now, and we still haven’t taken a proper vacation. Visiting your family and friends in New York doesn’t count, because Sam Wilson glared at me the entire time and me feel very unwelcome." 

Steve snorted, squinting at the ocean, baseball cap apparently doing nothing to block out the sun, as Bucky predicted when he turned down his offer to wear his favorite, limited-edition sunglasses. “Yeah, well, Sam knows what’s best for me,” he said, and Bucky scoffed, walking ahead. Steve grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Except in this case, he’s wrong.”

“Oh, Stevie, you’re such a charmer.” Despite the oozing sarcasm, Bucky practically melted in his arms, pecking him on the cheek, before dragging him closer to the shoreline.

Steve eyed their five-bedroom rental home, all modern architecture with square and boxy features and floor-to-ceiling windows, that Bucky grossly underestimated as a “beach shack” as opposed to a million-dollar home in the Hollywood Hills. “Why do we need a pool _and _hot tub when we’re twenty feet from the ocean?”

“In case we get tired of the ocean and want to make some waves of our own,” Bucky said, lowering his voice and waggling his eyebrows.

Steve looked less impressed by his hip movements and more concerned or maybe even frightened.

“Oh, come _on_, Steve,” Bucky whined. “We deserve a few days off to spend by ourselves before going back to our regular, busy lives and making the world a better place. But, for now, it’s just me and you on our own private island – except for my security detail, of course. And a private chef. And maybe a masseuse, but other than that, it’ll be me, you, and our mother, the sea.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure our mothers are very content in their own homes.”

“Yes, and I would love to be _content_ in my private beach getaway with my pretty, pretty boyfriend while we frolic in the ocean.”

“Frolic?”

Bucky took a step closer, a little too close, looking up at Steve with a cool, bravado to his voice, aiming to wipe the smirk from his face. “Mhm. You heard me. And seeing how you’re already wearing your sexy, little special-ordered swim trunks with your sexy, little special-ordered pockets, I suggest you not disobey your prince, and go. _Frolic_.” Steve’s smirk only grew wider, and playing along, he held up his hands in defense and slowly walked backward toward the water, as if waiting for Bucky to join him. Bucky chose to watch, instead, calling after him, “Let’s go, Rogers! I want to see your sea legs!”

“That’s not what that means, Buck!” Steve shouted back.

Bucky laughed, and after dropping his “tacky” Hawaiian shirt onto the sand, he chased after him.

Jumping onto his back with no warning, Steve nearly dropped him, almost falling face first into the outgoing tide, where he stood at the edge of the water. “Steve, come on. Your wallet or phone or whatever will be perfectly fine and are perfectly replaceable. Please don’t make me swim alone.”

It was Bucky who moved them further into the waves, but it was Steve who pulled them under. When they resurfaced, Bucky felt too shocked to react and completely drenched. Cocky, Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “What? I thought you wanted to frolic.”

Bucky retaliated by splashing him, and Steve just laughed, finally sounding relaxed and splashing him back. Too competitive and distracted by their juvenile play-fight, neither of them noticed how far they had drifted out or the wave that was forming behind them.

They washed up closer to the shore, coughing and sputtering, disoriented from being tossed upside down and right-side up by the wave, but also tangled in each other’s limbs and finding the entire scenario utterly hilarious.

It was Bucky who moved them back onto the beach, having already had enough of their mother, the sea, but it was Steve who pulled him on top of him on the sand and in for a deep kiss. Making out on the beach turned out to be a whole lot less romantic than Bucky imagined and had read in his five-dollar, harlequin romance novel he brought for the plane. Every move turned out to be pure agony, as rolling over consisted of bruising themselves against the rough ground and scratching themselves on the sand that clung to their wet skin and hair. “_Ow_,” Bucky said when he rolled onto a broken shell.

“_Fuck_,” Steve said when Bucky elbowed him in the ribs.

“Bed?” Bucky suggested, glancing toward the house, and Steve nodded.

Bucky rose to his feet first and recognized that Steve wasn’t exactly following. Turning around, he looked down to see Steve kneeling on the sand. “Oh, my god. Are you okay?”

Steve didn’t respond, but when he saw what he pulled from the pocket of his swim trunks, Bucky gasped, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Prince James Buchanan Barnes-Carter,” he began, and unable to keep a straight face through all of the syllables, he tried again, “Bucky, my best friend. My soulmate. My sweetheart. The love of my life.”

Allowing Steve to take his hand away from his face, Bucky blinked away the happy tears that burned his eyes, along with the saltwater. “Steve?”

“You’re my heart and my soul, and there’s nowhere else in the world that I’d rather be than right here with you right now. You changed my life when we were young and then again two years ago. Living without you was the worst period of my life, and I never want to do that again.”

He opened the box, and Bucky could no longer hold back the tears, making Steve hold his hand even tighter.

“You know I love the stupid shit you say, Buck, but please just say yes. I feel like I’ve waited my entire life to ask you this question.”

Unable to hear the question itself over the hideous sound of his own uncontrollable sobbing and the fact that his ears still hadn’t popped from the flight, Bucky nodded in reply and helped Steve to his feet. With the ring fitting perfectly on his finger, Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck while burying his face in his chest. Steve held him close, breathing steadily, relieved.

When the tears had slowed enough for him to lift his head, Bucky beamed as he admired how the diamonds and the silver band sparkled in the sunlight. He gave a shaky laugh. “You had this in your pocket the whole time?”

Steve shrugged, still holding him in his arms. “What? The very _irreplaceable_ ring that I had custom-made for you that you forced me to go into the ocean with?”

Bucky shook his head, still in total disbelief, and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. “It’s beautiful, Steve.”

“You’re beautiful. Especially when you’re not ugly-crying.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky cradled his jaw in his hands and kissed his other cheek. “I guess this means you’ll be shaving your beard.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “I thought you liked the beard.”

“Of course I like the beard!” Bucky defended himself a bit too vigorously. “It’s just that – do you really want to be the hipster-lumberjack prince in all the photos and portraits?”

“You’re one to talk,” Steve said, brushing a long strand of hair out of Bucky’s face that had fallen out of his half-bun.

Bucky just smiled and gasped with another realization. “Are you going to paint our pictures too?"

“If your mom and stepfather want me to.”

“Wow,” Bucky said. “A twelve-figure salary.” Steve narrowed his eyes again, a questioning glance, and Bucky explained his statement, “Six-figures for Ma’s wedding, and six for ours.”

Steve’s eyebrows rose high, and he opened and closed his mouth, deciding whether or not to correct him before laughing it off. “You’re lucky you’re pretty enough to not know how to do math.”

Bucky shrugged. “I’ll make my future husband do all the math.”

“Sounds like a lucky guy,” Steve said, hoisting him into his arms to carry back to their vacation home. “Come on, we have strawberries and ginger ale waiting for us to celebrate our engagement and your seventh month of sobriety.”

“Are any of the strawberries covered in chocolate?”

“Perhaps.”

Smiling wide, Bucky looked up at his fiancé in utter admiration. “I love you, Steve.”

Steve looked down at his fiancé just the same. “I love you too.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Margaret watched in awe, like the rest of the attendees, as her stepbrother walked down the aisle. In all of the years that she had known him, she had never seen him so happy. He looked at Steve like he was the only other person in the church, like he was the only other person in the world, never once breaking eye-contact throughout the entire service. He stumbled through his vows – the ones written for them and the ones he had written for himself – with the nervousness and confidence of someone who was completely sincere. He dropped Steve’s ring when it was time to exchange them, and every guest released a collective gasp. “I’m not scared of marrying you,” he said firmly after picking it up from the floor. “I’m just incredibly scared of fucking this up.”

The church gasped again, and Margaret laughed. Out of all firsts that this wedding presented, she hadn’t predicted part of it would need to be censored by the networks.

While he regained his composure, Margaret turned her attention to the woman who sat a couple of pews from the front. Angie amusedly watched the Princes’ first kiss as a married couple – her own engagement ring hidden in plain sight on a chain around her neck. When she met Margaret’s eye, she sighed.

Bucky, as she was still growing accustomed to calling him, had been right about an unspoken competition between them. A sibling rivalry. However, it was never about the first to gain Steve Rogers’ affection – that competition having been won years before she had even met him.

It was about who would be the first to get married.

As they applauded for her stepbrother and stepbrother-in-law, Margaret shrugged. She would have gladly lost any competition if it meant seeing Bucky so unbelievably content with being so disgustingly in love.

By the end of the year, two additions had been made to the portrait in the Throne Room. Margaret smiled up at the painting, shaking her head, as she wondered how four New Yorkers had ended up in the Royal Family, but she knew in that moment that their family was perfect, tradition be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your support and feedback is always welcome and appreciated!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :)


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